THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


TALES    FROM    FOREIGN    LANDS. 


UNIFORM    IN    STYLE    AND    PRICE. 


I. 
Memories :   A  Story  of  German  Love.    Translated  from 

the  German  of  MAX  MULI.EK,  by  Giio.  I'.  UPTON.     i6mo, 
'73  pages,  gilt  top. 


Graziella:  A  Story  of  Italian  Love.  Translated  from 
tht:  French  of  A.  DK  LA.M AKTINE,  by  JAMES  I!.  RUNNION, 
161110,  2.55  pagt-s,  gilt  top. 

III. 

Marie:  A  Story  of  Russian  Love.     From  the  Russian 

of  ALKXAXDHK   PUSHKIN,   by   MAKIE   II.    DI;  Ziiii.iN.-~KA. 
161110,  210  pages,  gilt  top. 

IV. 

Madeleine :  A  Story  of  French  Love.  Translated  from 
the  French  of  Jri.us  S.\Ni>i-:.\r,  by  FKAXUS  CHAKLHT. 
161110,  244  pages,  gilt  top. 


Marianela:  A  Story  of  Spanish  Love.    Translated  from 

the  .Spanish  of  }',.  Pr:i..-Kz  GAI.DOS,  by  HELEN  W.  LuaTEK. 
161110,  243  pages,  gilt  top. 

VI. 

Cousin  Phillis:    A  Story  of  English  Love,     liy  M'^- 

GASKF.I.I..      161110,  222  pages,  gill  top. 


GRAZIELLA: 

A    STORY   OF   ITALIAN   LOVE 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    FRENCH 

OF 

A.  DE  LAMARTINE, 

BY 

JAMES    13.    RUNNION, 


C  H  I  C  A  G  O : 

A.    C.    Me  C  L  U  R  G     &    CO  INI  P  A  N  Y. 

1894. 


COPYRIGHT, 

JANSEN,    McCLURG    &   CO., 
A.D.,   1875. 


TRANSLATOR'S   NOTE, 


TRANSLATOR'S    NOTE. 

r  I  ^HE  story  of  Graziella  is  a  leaf  torn  from  the 
-^  personal  memo! res  of  the  famous  French 
historian,  poet  and  orator  who  wrote  it, —  bright- 
ened by  his  smiles  and  moistened  with  his  tears. 
Had  it  not  been  for  Graziella,  "  Les  Confidences  " 
of  Lamartine  might  never  have  been  published. 
Many  years  after  this  Italian  romance  of  his 
youth  —  as  late  as  1843  —  Lamartine  went  into 
retreat  on  the  island  of  Ischia  to  write  his  "  His- 
tory of  the  Girondists."  Tie  was  in  sight  of  the 
isle  of  Procida  where  Graziella  had  lived  and  he 
had  loved,  and  his  hours  of  recreation  were 
passed  under  the  shade  of  a  lemon  tree,  writing 
out  the  recollections  of  this  charming  episode. 
It  was  while  he  was  thus  engaged  one  day,  that  his 
friend,  Eugene  Pelletan,  surprised  him  with  a 


TRA  NSLA  TOR '  S  A'O  TK. 


visit.  Pelletan  was  curious  to  know  what  La- 
martine  was  doing,  and  the  latter,  on  the  impulse, 
read  him  a  few  pages  from  his  journal.  Pelletan 
was  much  moved  at  the  recital,  and,  when  he 
returned  to  Paris,  told  a  publisher  of  that  city 
he  might  make  his  fortune  if  he  could  secure 
these  recollections  of  Lamartine's  youth.  The 
following  Autumn,  when  Lamartine  had  returned 
home,  he  received  a  letter  from  the  publisher 
offering  him  any  price  he  would  name  for  his 
journal.  Though  the  improvident  author  was 
then  in  embarrassed  circumstances,  he  declined 
the  offer.  Some  years  before,  he  had  purchased 
the  estate  at  Milly  on  borrowed  money,  that  he 
might  die  in  the  old  homestead.  He  was  now 
forced  to  part  with  a  portion  of  it.  A  week  after 
the  first  offer  for  the  Recollections,  came  another 
letter  from  Paris  importuning  their  publication. 
The  second  letter  was  received  at  the  moment  a 
notary  was  drawing  the  deed  for  the  sale  of  the 
Milly  estate;  Lamartine  was  in  a  humor  to  ac- 
cept any  alternative  rather  than  part  with  the 


TRA  NSLA  TOR 'S  NO  TE. 


house  hallowed  by  so  many  sacred  associations. 
He  seized  the  deed  from  the  table,  tore  it  in 
fragments,  and  wrote  to  the  Paris  publisher:  "I 
accept." 

Omitting  a  brief  sojourn  in  Rome,  this  little 
volume  includes  all  of  Lamartine's  first  visit  to 
Italy  from  the  time  he  left  his  home  at  Milly,— 
a  hamlet  nestling  in  the  valley  of  the  Saone,  on 
the  road  from  Macon  to  the  old  abbey  of  Cluny, 
where  Abelard  died.  He  was  traveling  with  a 
relative  who  was  called  to  Leghorn  on  business, 
and  it  was  intended  that  he  should  return  home 
from  there  ;  but  his  strong  desire  to  see  Rome 
and  Naples  induced  him  to  write  to  his  father 
for  permission  to  visit  those  cities.  He  was  then 
but  eighteen  years  old.  Having  written,  he  re- 
solved to  preclude  disobedience  by  going  without 
waiting  for  a  reply.  "  If  the  refusal  comes,"  he 
said,  "it  will  come  too  late.  I  shall  be  repri- 
manded, but  I  shall  be  forgiven;  I  shall  return, 
but  I  shall  have  seen."  His  impressions  of 
Rome  were  vivid  and  his  descriptions  singularly 


30  TRANSLATOR'S  A'OTf'.. 


picturesque,  but  as  they  are  not  pertinent  to  the 
story  of  Gra/.iella  they  are  omitted,  thus  offering 
alone  what  he  has  himself  called  "  that  mournful 

and  fascinating  presentiment  of  love." 

J.  B.  R. 
CHICAGO,  OCT.  29,  1875. 


GRAZIELLA. 


I 


GRAZIELLA. 

PART     FIRST. 

I. 

ARRIVED  at  Naples  on  the  first  of  April. 
A  few  days  later  I  was  joined  by  a  young 
man  of  about  my  own  age,  to  whom  I  had  at- 
tached myself  at  college  with  the  friendship  of  a 
brother.  His  name  was  Aymond  de  Virieu. 
His  life  and  mine  were  so  peculiarly  associated 
from  his  birth  to  his  d^ath,  that  one  forms  a  part 
of  the  other,  and  I  speak  of  him  almost  every- 
where I  have  occasion  to  speak  of  myself. 

At  Naples  I  led  nearly  the  same  contemplative 
life  as  in  Rome  at  the  house  of  the  old  painter 
of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  Only,  instead  of  pass- 


14  GRAZIEI.LA: 


ing  my  days  in  wandering  among  the  relics  of 
antiquity,  1  passed  them  in  wandering  along  the 
shore,  or  upon  the  waves  of  the  Gulf  of  Naples. 
In  the  evening  I  returned  to  the  old  convent, 
where,  thanks  to  the  hospitality  of  my  mother's 
relative,  I  occupied  a  little  cell  touching  the 
roof,  the  balcony  of  which,  decorated  with  flower- 
pots and  creeping  vines,  looked  out  upon  the 
sea,  upon  Mount  Vesuvius,  Castellamare  and 
Sorrento. 

When  the  morning  hori/on  was  clear,  I  could 
see  the  white  house  that  belonged  to  Tasso 
glistening  in  the  distance,  like  a  swan's  nest 
hanging  from  the  height  of  a  rocky  cliff,  perpen- 
dicularly cut  by  the  waves  of  the  sea.  This 
sight  ravished  me.  The  light  of  that  house 

o  o 

penetrated  to  the  very  depths  of  my  soul.  It 
was  like  a  ray  of  glory  that  shone  from  afar 
upon  my  youth  and  my  darkness.  I  revived  in 
my  mind  that  heroic  episode  in  the  life  of  the 
great  man,  when,  coming  from  prison,  persecuted 
by  the  envy  of  the  little  and  the  calumny  of 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  15 

the  great,  mocked  even  unto  his  genius — his 
only  fortune — he  returned  to  Sorrento  to  seek 
rest,  kindness,  or  even  pity;  and  when,  disguised 
as  a  beggar,  he  presented  himself  to  his  sister 
to  touch  her  heart  and  see  if  she,  at  least, 
would  recognize  the  man  whom  she  had  once 
loved  so  much. 

"She  recognizes  him  at  once,"  says  his  bio- 
grapher, "in  spite  of  his  sickly  pallor,  his 
whitened  beard,  and  his  ragged  mantle.  She 
throws  herself  into  his  arms  with  more  tender- 
ness and  sympathy  than  if  she  had  recognized 
her  brother  in  the  glittering  dress  of  a  courtier 
of  Ferrara.  Her  voice  is  long  stifled  with  sobs; 
she  presses  her  brother  to  her  heart.  She 
washes  his  feet,  and  has  a  feast  prepared  for 
him.  But  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  could 
eat  of  a  single  dish  that  was  served,  so  full  of 
tears  were  their  hearts ;  and  they  passed  the 
day  in  weeping,  saying  nothing,  looking  out 
upon  the  sea,  and  recalling  the  happy  hours  of 
their  childhood." 


1 6  CRAZIELLA: 


II. 

It  was  in  the  beginning  of  the  Summer, 
at  a  time  when  the  Gulf  of  Naples,  lined  by 
its  hills,  its  white  houses,  and  its  rocks,  em- 
broidered with  creeping  vines,  and  encircling  a 
sea  bluer  than  the  heavens  above,  resembles  a 
great  vase  of  vert  antique  whitened  with  foam, 
whose  brim  and  handles  are  festooned  with  ivy- 
leaves  and  branches.  It  was  the  season  when 
the  fishermen  of  Posilippo,  who  hang  their  cabins 
over  the  rocks  and  stretch  their  nets  out  upon 
the  sandy  beach,  push  off  from  the  shore  during 
the  night  in  perfect  confidence,  and  go  out  two 
or  three  leagues  into  the  sea  to  fish, — as  far  as 
the  promontories  of  Capri,  Procida,  Ischia,  and 
the  Gulf  of  Gaeta. 

Some  carry  with  them  torches  made  of  resin. 
which  they  light  in  order  to  deceive  the  fish. 
The  fish  comes  to  the  top  of  the  water,  believing 
it  to  be  the  break  of  day.  A  child,  crouched 
upon  the  prow  of  the  boat,  inclines  the  burning 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  17 


torch  toward  the  water,  while  the  fisherman, 
whose  eye  penetrates  to  the  very  bottom  of  the 
gulf,  searches  for  his  prey  and  catches  it  in  the 
net.  These  lights,  red  as  the  fire  of  a  furnace, 
are  reflected  in  long,  undulating  waves  on  the 
surface  of  the  sea,  like  the  last  faint  glimmerings 
of  the  moon.  The  undulation  follows  the 
movement  of  the  billows  and  prolongs  the  glare 
from  wave  to  wave,  reflected  from  one  to  the 
other. 

III. 

My  friend  and  I  passed  whole  hours  at  a  time, 
seated  on  the  shoals  or  among  the  damp  ruins 
of  Queen  Jeanne's  palace,  in  watching  these 
picturesque  lights  and  in  envying  the  erratic 
and  careless  life  of  these  poor  fishermen. 

A  few  months'  residence  in  Naples  and  con- 
stant association  with  the  common  people,  whom 
we  met  in  our  daily  excursions  to  the  country 
and  upon  the  sea,  enabled  us  to  familiarize  our- 
selves with  their  emphatic  yet  sweet-sounding 


iS  CUA7.IELLA: 

language,  in  which  look  and  gesture  take  as 
prominent  a  part  as  the  word  itself.  Naturally 
inclined  to  be  philosophers,  and  tired  of  the  vain 
vicissitudes  of  life  before  knowing  what  they 
were,  we  often  regarded  with  envious  feelings 
those  happy  la/zaroni,  with  whom  the  beach  and 
the  quays  of  Naples  were  crowded  ;  who  whiled 
away  the  day  under  the  shade  of  their  little 
barks  on  the  sand,  listening  to  the  improvised 
verses  of  the  wandering  minstrels,  and  dancing 
the  tarcntcHrt  in  the  evening  with  the  young  girls 
of  their  station  under  some  arbor  along  the  sea- 
shore. We  understood  their  customs,  their  hab- 
its and  their  character  much  better  than  those 
of  fine  society,  in  which,  indeed,  we  never  min- 
gled. This  life  suited  us,  and  quieted  that  fever- 
ish action  of  the  soul,  which  occupies  the  imagi- 
nation of  young  men  uselessly  before  the  hour 
their  destiny  calls  upon  them  to  think  or  act. 

My  friend  was  twenty  years  old  ;  I  was  only 
eighteen;  so  we  were  both  of  an  age  v,  hen 
dreams  are  confused  with  realities.  \\  e  resolved 


A    STORY  OF  ITALTAN  LOVE.  19 


to  form  a  closer  acquaintance  with  these  fisher- 
men, and,  in  their  company,  embark  for  a  few 
days  on  the  same  life.  To  pass  these  mild, 
brilliant  nights  under  the  sail,  in  the  rocking 
cradle  of  the  billows  and  under  a  canopy  of 
stars,  seemed  to  us  one  of  the  most  mysterious 
luxuries  of  nature,  which  it  was  essential  for  us 
to  penetrate,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  to  relate 
our  experience. 

Free,  and  obliged  to  render  account  to  no  one 
of  our  actions  or  of  our  absence,  we  put  into 
execution  on  the  following  morning  that  which 
we  had  planned  in  the  evening.  In  walking 
over  the  beach  of  Margellina,  which  extends  out 
under  the  tomb  of  Virgil  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Posilippo,  and  where  the  fishermen  of  Naples 
draw  their  boats  on  the  sand  to  repair  their  nets, 
we  encountered  an  old  fellow  who  was  still 
robust.  lie  was  putting  away  his  fishing  tackle 
in  a  long  boat,  painted  in  glittering  colors,  and 
adorned  at  the  stern  with  a  little  carved  image 
of  St.  Francis.  A  boy,  about  twelve  years  of 


20  GRAZTRLLA: 


age,  his  only  oarsman,  came  up  at  this  moment, 
bringing  with  him  two  loaves  of  bread,  a  cheese 
with  a  hard  skin  and  as  bright  as  the  pebbles 
that  covered  the  shore,  some  figs,  and  an  earthen 
jug  filled  with  water. 

The  appearance  of  the  old  man  and  child 
attracted  us.  We  engaged  in  conversation.  The 
fisherman  began  to  laugh  when  we  proposed 
that  he  should  take  us  to  sea  with  him,  and 
that  we  should  act  as  oarsmen. 

''Your  hands  are  scarcely  hard  enough  to 
handle  the  oar,"  said  he;  ''those  white  fingers 
were  made  to  clasp  the  pen,  and  not  wood.  It 
would  be  a  shame  to  harden  them  at  sea." 

"We  are  young,"  answered  my  friend,  "and 
\ve  wish  to  try  all  callings  before  finally  choos- 
ing one.  Yours  pleases  us,  for  it  requires  one 
to  be  upon  the  sea  and  under  the  sky." 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  old  boatman.  "It 
is  a  trade  that  makes  the  heart  contented  and 
the  soul  confident  in  the  protection  of  the  saints. 
The  fisherman  is  under  the  immediate  charge  of 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  21 

heaven.  Man  knows  not  whence  comes  the 
wind  or  the  wave.  The  file  and  the  plane  are 
in  the  hand  of  the  workman,  riches  and  favor 
are  in  the  hand  of  the  king,  but  the  boat  is  in 
the  hand  of  God." 

This  holy  philosophy  of  the  barcarole  con- 
firmed our  intention  of  embarking  with  him. 
After  a  long  refusal  he  consented  to  it.  We 
agreed  that  each  of  us  should  give  him  two  car- 
lines  a  day  to  pay  him  for  our  apprenticeship 
and  food. 

Having  settled  upon  the  terms,  he  sent  his 
boy  back  to  Margellina  to  procure  a  new  supply 
of  bread,  wine,  dry  cheese  and  fruits.  Toward 
the  close  of  the  clay  we  assisted  him  in  putting 
the  boat  afloat,  and  then  pushed  off  into  the 
open  sea. 

IV. 

The  first  night  was  charming.  The  sea  was 
as  calm  as  one  of  the  little  lakes  set  down 
among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland.  The  fur- 


ther  we  sailed  from  the  coast  the  more  numer- 
ous \vere  the  long  tongues  ot  fire  that  issued  out 
of  the  windows  of  the  palaces,  and  shot  Irom  the 
qiuivs  of  Naples,  and  were  at  last  absorbed  In 
the  dark  line  of  the  horizon.  The  lighthouse 
alone  indicated  the  shore.  Uut  they  paled 
before  the  column  of  lire  springing  from  the 
crater  of  Mount  Vesuvius.  While  the  fir-her- 
nia n  threw  out  and  drew  in  his  net,  and  the  boy, 
half  sleeping,  permitted  his  torch  to  vacillate 
from  side  to  side,  we  gave  a  slight  impulse  to 
llie  movement  of  the  boat  from  time  to  time, 
and  listened  with  delight  to  the  harmonious 
sound  of  the  water  dripping  from  our  oars  into 
the  sea,  like  pearls  into  a  great  basin  of  silver. 
We  had  long  since  doubled  the  point  of 
1'osilippo,  crossed  the  gulf  of  Po/c/uoli  and  that 
of  Baia,  and  passed  through  the  channel  of  the 
gulf  of  Gaeta  between  the  Cape  Miseno  and  the 
Isle  of  Procida.  We  were  in  the  open  sea  when 
sleep  overtook  us.  We  laid  ourselves  down  on 
the  seat  beside  the  child. 


.-/    STORY   OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  23 

The  fisherman  had  stretched  over  us,  we  found 
on  awaking,  the  heavy  sail  that  lay  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat.  We  had  fallen  asleep  between 
two  billcnvs,  cradled  by  a  sea  that  scarcely  moved 
the  mast.  Day  had  broken  before  we  awoke. 

A  bright  sun  decorated  the  sea  with  ribbons  of 
fire  and  shone  upon  the  white  houses  on  a  coast 
unknown  to  us.  A  light  breeze,  that  came  from 
the  shore,  agitated  the  sail  above  us  and  drove 
us  gently  from  rock  to  rock,  from  one  projection 
to  another.  It  was  the  perpendicular  and  ragged 
coast  of  the  island  of  Ischia,  which  I  was  destined 
afterwards  to  learn  and  to  love.  Seeing  this 
island  for  the  first  time,  it  seemed  to  me  as 
though  it  were  swimming  in  light,  rising  from  the 
sea,  losing  itself  in  the  blue  sky,  —  born  like 
the  dream  of  a  poet  in  the  light  sleep  of  a  sum- 
mer night. 

V. 

The  island  of  Ischia,  which  divides  the  Gulf 
of  Gaeta  from  the  Gulf  of  Xaples,  and  which  is 
separated  from  the  island  of  Procida  only  by  a 


24  CRAZIF.I.LA: 


narrow  channel,  is  but  a  perpendicular  peak,  the 
white  summit,  battered  by  thunder-storms,  plung- 
ing its  sharp  teeth  into  the  sky.  Its  steep  ascents, 
cut  into  by  glens,  ravines  and  torrent-beds,  are 
covered  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  with  horse- 
chestnut  trees  of  a  dark  green  color.  Its  table- 
land, nearest  to  the  sea,  and  inclining  over  the 
waves,  is  filled  with  thatched  houses,  rural  cot- 
tages and  little  villages,  half  concealed  within 
the  grape-vines  that  surround  them.  Each  of 
these  villages  has  its  ''  marine,"  for  so  they  call 
the  harbor  with  its  fleet  of  boats  belonging  to  the 
fishermen  of  the  island,  among  which  we  found 
a  few  masts  that  carry  the  lateen  sail.  The 
mast-heads  touch  the  trees  and  vines  of  the 
coast. 

There  is  not  one  of  these  houses,— hanging 
from  a  declivity  of  the  mountain,  hidden  at  the 
bottom  of  a  ravine,  perched  on  a  table-rock,  pro- 
jecting on  one  of  the  peaks,  leaning  against  a 
great  horse-chestnut  tree,  shaded  by  a  grove  of 
pines,  surrounded  by  arbors  and  festooned  with 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  25 

hanging  grapes, —  that  might  not  be  the  ideal 
home  of  n  poet  or  a  lover. 

Our  eyes  did  not  weary  with  gazing  on  this 
scene.  The  coast  abounded  in  fish.  The  fisher- 
man made  a  good  night  of  it.  We  ran  ashore  in 
one  of  the  little  coves  to  get  water  from  a  neigh- 
boring spring,  and  to  rest  ourselves  on  the  rocks. 
\Ve  returned  to  Naples  by  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun,  reclining  upon  the  benches  of  the  boat.  A 
square  sail  fixed  across  a  small  mast  at  the  prow 
—  the  boy  holding  the  rope — was  sufficient  to 
carry  us  beyond  the  promontories  of  Procida  and 
Cape  Miseno,  and  to  make  the  sea  foam  under 
the  sharp  speed  of  our  bark. 

The  old  fisherman  and  his  boy,  with  our  assist- 
ance, drew  the  boat  on  the  sand  and  carried  the 
baskets  filled  with  fish  into  the  cellar  of  a  little 
house,  where  they  lived,  under  the  rocks  of  Mar- 

gellina. 

VI. 

For  several  days  we  gayly  resumed  cur  newly- 
chosen  vocation.  We  explored  in  turn  all  parts 


26  GRA7.IFJ.LA 


c,f  the  Gulf  of  Naples.  We  visited  the  Inland  of 
Capri,  where  superstition  still  drives  away  the 
shade  of  Tiberius;  Cumce  and  its  temples,  buried 
under  the  thick  foliage  of  bay-trees  and  wild  fig- 
trees;  Bai'a  and  its  deserted  places  that  seem  to 
have  grown  old  and  gruy  like  the  Romans  whose 
youth  and  pleasures  they  formerly  witnessed; 
1'ortici  and  Pompeii,  smiling  under  the  lava  and 
ashes  of  Vesuvius;  Castellaraare,  with  its  great 
black  forests  of  laurel  and  wild  chestnut  trees, 
which,  reflecting  themselves  in  the  sea,  give  the 
ever- murmuring  waves  a  tint  of  dark  green. 
The  old  boatman  had  acquaintances  everywhere 
among  the  families  of  fishermen  like  himself,  by 
whom  we  were  received  with  generous  hospitality 
when  the  sea  was  so  heavy  as  to  prevent  us  from 
returning  to  Naples. 

During  two  whole  months  we  never  once  put 
our  feet  into  an  inn.  We  lived  in  the  open  air 
with  the  people,  and  led  the  frugal  life  of  the 
people.  We  had  made  ourselves  their  compan- 
ions in  order  to  be  in  closer  communion  with 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  27 

nature.  We  almost  wore  their  dress.  We  spoke 
their  language,  and  the  simplicity  of  their  habits 
seemed  to  imbue  our  spirits  with  the  innocence 
of  their  thoughts. 

But  this  change  in  our  condition  did  not  cost 
us  much  sacrifice,  after  all.  Both  of  us  having 
been  brought  up  in  the  country  during  the  storms 
of  the  revolution  that  had  driven  our  families 
from  their  homes,  we  had  in  childhood  led  much 
tire  life  of  the  peasant.  My  friend  had  been  in 
the  mountains  of  Gresivaudan,  with  a  nurse  who 
took  him  from  his  mother's  arms,  when  the  latter 
went  to  prison.  I  had  lived  among  the  hills  of 
Macon,  in  a  little  farm-house,  where  my  father  and 
mother  had  gathered  together  their  threatened 
brood.  There  are  no  other  differences  between 
the  shepherd  or  laborer  of  our  mountains  and 
tlie  fisherman  of  the  Gulf  of  Naples  than  those  of 
location,  language  and  calling.  The  furrow  or  the 
wave  inspires  with  the  same  thoughts  the  man  who 
tills  the  ground  and  the  man  who  toils  upon  the 
sea.  Nature  speaks  the  same  language  to  all  those 


28  GRAZIKLLA  : 


who  receive  nourishment  from  her  bosom,  whether 
it  be  on  the  mountain  or  on  the  ocean. 

We  experienced  all  this.  In  company  with 
the  simplest  kind  of  men,  we  did  not  find  our- 
selves out  of  place.  The  same  instincts  form  a 
relationship  between  men.  The  very  monotony 
of  this  life  pleased  us  while  it  quieted  us.  We 
looked  forward  with  sorrow  to  the  end  of  Sum- 
mer and  the  approach  of  Autumn  and  Winter, 
when  we  should  be  obliged  to  return  to  our 
native  country.  Our  people,  already  uneasy 
about  our  welfare,  began  to  recall  us.  We  put 
off  as  far  as  possible  all  thought  of  going  away, 
and  delighted  in  picturing  to  ourselves  that  this 
life  would  have  no  end. 

VII. 

But  September  soon  came  with  its  rain-storms 
and  thunder-storms.  The  sea  lost  its  placid  ap- 
pearance. Our  calling  was  a  more  laborious  one 
and  sometimes  a  more  dangerous  one.  The 
winds  were  higher  and  the  waves  foamed,  often 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  29 

washing  over  us  in  their  tumult.  We  had  bought 
us,  on  the  quay,  a  couple  of  cloaks  made  of  a 
coarse  brown  stuff,  such  as  the  sailors  and  lazza- 
roni  of  Naples  throw  over  their  shoulders  during 
Winter.  The  large  sleeves  of  these  cloaks  hang 
down,  exposing  the  bare  arms.  The  hood,  al- 
lowed to  flutter  at  the  back  or  drawn  down  over 
the  forehead,  according  to  the  weather,  protects 
the  head  of  the  mariner  from  the  rain  and  cold, 
or  admits  the  breeze  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  to 
play  among  his  hair. 

One  day  we  left  Margellina  with  a  sea  the 
surface  of  which  was  as  smooth  as  oil  and  dis- 
turbed by  no  breath  of  the  wind,  to  go  to  the 
coast  of  Cumos,  whither  the  fish  are  driven  by 
the  currents  at  this  season  of  the  year.  But  the 
dense  mist  of  the  morning  warned  us  that  we 
might  expect  a  heavy  wind  before  evening.  We 
hoped, however,  to  avoid  it  by  doubling  the  Cape 
Miseno  before  the  dull  and  sleeping  sea  should 
be  awakened. 

There  was  an  abundance  of  fish.     We  could 


30  GRAZIELLA 


not  resist  the  temptation  of  throwing  out  the 
nets  a  few  tunes  more.  The  wind  surpn-ed  us. 
It  came  from  Kpomeo,  an  immense  mountain  that 
towers  above  Ischia,  and  with  the  noise  and  im- 
petuosity of  the  mountain  itself  rolling  into  the 
sea.  First  it  smoothed  out  all  the  liquid  surface 
that  surrounded  us  as  the  iron  harrow  goes  over 
the  ground  and  levels  the  furrows.  Then  the 
wave,  recovering  from  the  attack,  ar.gnly  aroused 
itself,  and  in  a  few  minutes  had  attained  such  a 
height  that,  on  either  side,  it  concealed  from  our 
view  the  main  coast  and  the  islands. 

We  were  about  equally  distant  from  the  main 
shore  and  the  island  of  Ischia,  and  nearly  in  the 
middle  of  the  channel  that  divides  Cape  Miseno 
from  the  Greek  island  of  Procida.  There  was 
but  one  course  left  for  us  to  take:  to  row  man- 
fully into  the  channel,  and,  if  we  succeeded  in 
getting  through  it,  to  throw  ourselves  at  the  left 
into  the  gulf  of  Bai'a,  and  in  this  way  find  shelter 
in  its  quieter  waters. 

The  old  fisherman  did  not  hesitate  a  moment. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  31 

From  the  top  of  an  immense  wave,  where  the 
balance  of  the  boat  held  us  an  instant  in  a  whirl- 
pool of  foam,  he  threw  a  hasty  glance  around 
as  a  man  lost  in  a  forest  might  climb  to  the  top 
of  a  tree  to  seek  his  way  ;  then,  seizing  the  rudder, 
he  cried  out : 

"To  your  oars,  children!  We  must  reach  the 
cape  before  the  wind  can.  If  it  gets  ahead  of 
us  we  are  lost." 

We  obeyed  as  the  body  obeys  its  instincts. 

With  our  eyes  fixed  upon  his  eyes  in  order  the 
more  rapidly  to  catcli  the  directions  given,  we 
bent  upon  our  oars;  now  painfully  clambering 
up  the  side  of  a  swelling  wave,  now  precipitated 
with  the  foam  of  a  falling  wave,  we  endeavored 
to  avoid  the  shock  by  opposing  the  resistance  of 
our  oars  in  the  water.  Eight  or  ten  of  these 
great  waves,  growing  larger  and  larger,  threw  us 
into  the  narrowest  part  of  the  channel.  But  the 
wind  had  outstripped  us,  as  the  pilot  had  feared, 
and  rushing  between  the  cape  and  the  extreme 
point  of  the  island,  it  had  acquired  such  force 


GRAZIRLLA  : 


tint  it  lifted  the  sea  with  the  deep  rumbling  noise 
of  a  furious  lava,  and  the  waves,  not  finding 
room  enough  to  fly  before  the  storm  that  drove 
them,  heaped  themselves  upon  each  other,  fell 
back  again,  rushed  and  scattered  like  a  mad  sen  ; 
vainly  seeking  escape  in  the  channel,  they  dashed 
against  the  sharp  rocks  of  the  cape,  and  there 
towered  above  in  a  grand  column  of  foam,  the 
spray  from  which  was  thrown  far  enough  to  pour 
down  upon  us. 

VIII. 

To  attempt  to  make  this  passage  with  a  boat 
as  frail  as  ours,  which  one  of  those  foaming 
waves  might  have  filled  and  engulfed,  would 
have  been  foolhardy.  The  fisherman  gave  a 
look,  which  I  shall  never  forget,  at  the  cape, 
lighted  up  by  one  of  these  columns  of  glistening 
foam  ;  then,  piously  making  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
he  said  to  us  : 

"To  pass  it  is  impossible;  to  return  into  the 
open  sea  would  be  still  more  so.  There  is  but. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  33 

one  thing  left  for  us  to  do:  we  must  make  a  land- 
ing at  Procida  or  perish." 

Novices  as  we  were  in  the  practices  of  the  sea, 
we  perceived  at  once  the  difficulties  that  we 
would  encounter  in  attempting  to  make  this 
landing  during  a  storm.  In  directing  us  toward 
the  cape,  the  wind  took  our  boat  in  the  rear  and 
drove  us  before  it.  We  went  with  the  sea  which 
was  flying  with  us,  and  rose  and  fell  with  the 
waves  that  carried  us.  In  this  way  there  was  at 
least  not  so  much  probability  of  our  being  buried 
in  the  abysses  which  the  waves  hollowed  out. 
But  in  order  to  reach  the  coast  of  Procida,  where 
we  could  see  the  evening  lights  shining  at  our 
right,  it  was  necessary  to  take  the  waves  obliquely 
and,  as  it  were,  glide  through  the  valleys  made 
by  them,  presenting  the  sides  of  our  boat  to  the 
billows  and  its  thin  boards  to  the  wind.  Neces- 
sity, however,  gave  us  no  time  to  hesitate.  The 
fisherman,  making  us  a  sign  to  lift  the  oars,  took 
advantage  of  the  interval  between  the  falling  of 
one  wave  and  the  rising  of  another  to  turn  the 
3 


34  GRAZIELLA  : 


boat  about.  We  took  our  course  to  Procida  and 
wandered  along  like  a  bit  of  sea -weed  tossed 
from  one  wave  to  another  wave,  or  which  one 
billow  snatches  from  another  billow. 

IX. 

We  made  but  slow  work  of  it.  The  shades  of 
night  were  falling.  The  spray,  the  foam,  the 
clouds  that  the  winds  turned  into  irregular 
showers,  only  served  to  increase  the  gloom.  The 
old  man  had  ordered  the  boy  to  light  one  of  his 
torches,  partly  for  the  purpose  of  giving  him  some 
light  by  which  to  direct  his  movements  in  the 
depth  of  the  sea,  and  partly  to  inform  the  sailors 
of  Procida  that  a  boat  was  in  danger  and  to  call 
upon  them — not  for  assistance,  which  would 
have  been  impossible — but  for  their  prayers. 

It  was  a  sublime  and  terrible  thing  to  see  this 
poor  boy,  clinging  with  one  hand  to  the  light 
mast  that  ran  up  from  the  bow  of  the  boat,  and 
with  the  other  lifting  the  torch  of  red  fire  far 
above  his  head,  the  flame  and  the  smoke  brushed 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  35 

back  by  the  wind  until  they  scorched  his  hands 
and  hair.  This  fluttering  light,  now  appearing  at 
the  top  of  a  great  wave  and  again  disappearing 
in  its  depth,  now  about  to  go  out  and  then  regain- 
ing all  its  brilliancy,  was  symbolic  of  the  four 
human  souls  that  struggled  between  life  and 
death  during  the  anguish  of  that  awful  night. 

X. 

Three  hours,  each  minute  of  which  had  the 
duration  of  the  thought  that  measured  it,  passed 
in  this  way.  The  moon  rose,  and,  as  usual,  the 
wind  rose  more  furiously  Avith  it.  If  we  had 
carried  an  inch  of  canvas  we  would  have  cap- 
sized twenty  times  before  this.  Although  the 
low  sides  of  the  boat  exposed  but  little  surface  to 
the  hurricane,  there  were  moments  when  it 
seemed  as  though  the  wind  would  tear  our  keel 
from  out  the  water,  and  when  it  drove  the  bark 
around  and  about  as  it  would  a  dry  leaf  that  had 
fallen  from  a  tree. 

A  great  deal  of  water  poured  in  upon  us.     We 


36  GKAZIELLA  : 

could  not  bail  it  out  as  fast  as  it  came  in.  There 
were  times  when  we  could  feel  the  planks  sink 
down  under  us  like  a  coffin  that  is  lowered  into 
the  grave.  The  weight  of  the  water  rendered  the 
boat  more  unmanageable,  and  might  at  any  time 
have  kept  it  too  long  in  lifting  itself  out  of  the 
space  between  two  waves.  A  single  moment 
of  such  delay  and  we  would  have  been  lost. 

The  old  man,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  with- 
out the  power  of  speaking,  made  us  a  sign  to 
throw  everything  into  the  sea  that  encumbered 
the  bottom  of  the  boat.  The  vessels  of  fresh 
water,  the  baskets  of  fish,  the  two  large  sails,  the 
iron  anchor,  the  ropes,  even  the  heavier  clothes 
and  our  two  cloaks  of  thick  wool,  dripping  with 
water, —  all  were  thrown  overboard.  The  poor 
sailor  looked  for  a  moment  to  see  his  whole  for- 
tune submerged ;  the  boat  lifted  itself  again  and 
ran  lightly  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  like  a  charger 
relieved  of  his  burden. 

Imperceptibly  we  gained  a  milder  sea,  pro- 
tected somewhat  by  the  western  point  oi  Procida. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  37 

The  wind  went  down  a  little;  the  flame  of  the 
torch  was  more  steady;  the  moon  opened  a  great 
blue  vista  in  the  sky;  the  waves,  stretching  out 
and  leveling,  ceased  to  foam  above  our  heads. 
Gradually  the  waves  became  shorter  and  milder, 
almost  as  in  a  quiet  bay,  and  the  black  shade  of 
the  promontory  of  Procida  cut  the  horizon  just 
before  us.  We  were  in  the  waters  nearly  op- 
posite the  center  of  the  island. 

XI. 

The  sea  was  still  too  high  to  attempt  a  landing 
at  this  point,  where  there  was  a  port.  There 
only  remained  the  sides  of  the  islands  and  the 
quicksands  of  the  shore. 

"There  is  no  longer  any  occasion  for  fear, 
children,"  said  the  old  fisherman,  as  he  recog- 
nized the  land  by  the  light  of  the  torch;  "the 
Madonna  has  saved  us.  We  will  reach  the 
shore  in  safety,  and  sleep  to-night  in  my  house." 

We  believed  that  the  man  had  lost  his  senses, 
for  we  knew  of  no  other  house  belonging  to  him 


3 3  GRAZIEU.A  : 

than  the  little  cellar  at  Margellina,  and  to  return 
to  that  before  the  night  was  over,  we  would  have 
been  obliged  to  enter  the  channel  again,  double 
the  cape,  and  confront  the  roaring  sea  from 
which  we  had  just  escaped. 

But  he  smiled  at  our  astonishment,  and,  guess- 
ing our  thoughts  from  our  eyes,  he  continued  : 

"Do  not  fear,  I  tell  you;  we  shall  arrive  at 
my  house  to-night,  and  not  another  wave  shall 
moisten  your  clothes." 

He  then  explained  to  us  that  he  came  from 
Procida ;  that  he  still  owned,  on  this  side  of  the 
island,  the  cabin  and  garden  left  by  his  father, 
and  that,  at  this  very  moment,  his  aged  wife, 
with  her  grand-daughter,  a  sister  of  Beppino's, 
who  was  our  ship  boy,  and  t\vo  other  grand- 
children, were  at  his  house  to  dry  figs  and 
gather  grapes  which  they  sold  in  Naples. 

''Only  a  few  more  strokes  of  the  oar,"  he 
added,  " and  we  shall  drink  spring  water  which 
is  clearer  than  the  wine  of  Ischia." 

These   words   infused    new   courage    into  our 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  39 

hearts.  We  rowed  another  league  or  so,  the 
entire  length  of  the  straight  and  foaming  coast 
of  Procida.  From  time  to  time  the  boy  would 
raise  and  shake  his  torch,  which  threw  a  somber 
light  upon  the  rocks  and  showed  us  everywhere 
a  wall  of  stone  that  was  not  to  be  scaled. 
Finally,  on  turning  a  point  of  granite  that  pro- 
jected out  into  the  sea  like  a  bulwark,  we  saw 
the  cliff  bowed  and  hollowed  out,  somewhat  like 
a  breach  in  a  fortification.  One  movement  of 
the  rudder  served  to  direct  the  boat  toward  the 
shore.  Three  final  strokes  threw  our  harassed 
boat  between  two  rocks,  where  the  foam  bub- 
bled on  the  shallow  bottom. 

XII. 

The  prow  of  the  boat  in  striking  against  the 
rock  gave  a  dry  and  hollow  sound  like  the  crash 
of  a  board  that  falls  accidentally  and  breaks. 
We  jumped  into  the  water;  we  fastened  the 
boat  as  well  as  we  could  with  the  rope  that  was 


40  GRAZIELLA  : 


left,  and  then  followed  the  old  man  and  the 
child  who  took  the  lead. 

We  climbed  a  sort  of  a  narrow  stairway  that 
led  up  the  side  of  the  cliff,  a  succession  of 
uneven  steps  —  slippery  with  the  spray  from  the 
sea  —  which  had  been  dug  out  with  a  chisel. 
The  ascent  up  this  steep  stairway  had  been 
greatly  facilitated  by  some  artificial  steps,  made 
by  long  poles,  the  points  of  which  had  been 
forced  into  the  apertures  of  the  rock,  and  these 
frail  supports  covered  by  planks  torn  from  old 
boats,  or  by  heaps  of  branches  from  the  chestnut 
trees,  still  ornamented  with  their  dead  leaves. 

After  having  ascended  slowly  four  or  five 
hundred  steps  in  this  way,  we  found  ourselves 
in  a  kind  of  inclosure,  suspended  on  high,  and 
surrounded  by  a  parapet  of  stones.  At  the  end 
of  this  court-yard  there  were  t\vo  gloomy  arch- 
ways that  seemed  to  lead  into  a  cave.  Above 
these  great  arches  were  two  arcades,  low  and 
rounded,  with  a  terrace  for  a  roof,  the  edges  of 
which  were  decorated  with  flower  pots  of  rose- 


A    STORY   OF  ITALIAAT  LOTE.  41 

mary.  Under  the  arcades  a  rustic  walk  could  be 
seen,  in  which  hanging  masses  of  mai's  glistened 
in  the  light  of  the  moon  like  golden  ornaments. 
A  door  made  of  planks  rudely  dovetailed 
opened  upon  this  walk.  At  the  right,  an 
inclined  plane  of  ground,  upon  which  a  little 
house  was  situated,  gradually  came  up  to  the 
same  level.  A  great  fig-tree  and  some  tortuous 
vine  stalks  were  bending  over  the  angle  of  the 
house,  confusing  their  leaves  and  fruits  at  the 
entrance  of  the  walk,  festooned  and  creeping 
over  the  wall  that  supported  the  arcades  above. 
Their  branches  half  formed  bars  to  the  two  low 
windows  that  looked  out  upon  this  little  garden 
walk;  and  if  there  had  been  no  window,  the 
low,  square  and  solid  house  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  one  of  the  light  gray  rocks,  pecu- 
liar to  the  coast,  or  for  one  of  those  blocks  of 
petrified  lava  (entwined  in  the  branches  of  the 
chestnut,  the  ivy  and  the  vine),  out  of  which 
the  grape  cultivators  of  Castellamare  and  Sor- 
rento hew  caves,  close  them  with  a  door,  and 


42  GR  A/JELL  A  : 


there  preserve  the  wine  by  the  side  of  the  stock 
that  first  bore  it. 

Out  of  breath  from  the  long  and  steep  ascent 
we  had  made,  and  from  the  weight  of  the  oars 
which  \ve  carried  on  our  shoulders,  the  old  man, 
my  companion  and  I  stopped  in  this  court-yard 
for  a  moment  in  order  to  rest.  But  the  boy, 
tossing  his  oar  upon  a  pile  of  brushwood,  ran 
lightly  up  the  stairway,  and,  with  his  torch  still 
lighted  and  in  his  hand,  began  knocking  at  one 
of  the  windows  and  calling  in  glee  for  his  grand- 
mother and  sister. 

"Mother!  Sister!  Madre !  Sorrellina!  Gae- 
tano  !  Graziella  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Wake  up  ; 
open  the  door ;  it's  father ;  it's  me ;  and  we 
have  strangers  with  us." 

We  soon  heard  a  voice,  not  more  than  half- 
awake,  yet  clear  and  soft,  utter  some  excla- 
mations of  surprise  from  within  the  house.  Then 
the  window  was  partly  opened,  pushed  up  by  an 
arm  naked  and  white,  that  reached  out  from  a 
flowing  sleeve,  and  we  saw  by  the  light  of  the 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  43 

torch  which  the  boy,  balancing  himself  on  tip- 
toe, raised  toward  the  window,  the  lovely  face 
of  a  young  girl  appear  between  the  shutters 
which  were  thrown  widely  open. 

Awakened  from  a  fast  sleep  by  the  unexpect- 
ed sound  of  her  brother's  voice,  Graziella  did 
not  think,  nor  had  the  time,  to  arrange  her 
dress.  She  had  hurried  to  the  window  in  bare 
feet  and  just  as  she  had  arisen  from  the  bed. 
Her  long  black  hair,  half  of  which  fell  down 
over  one  of  her  cheeks,  the  other  half  curled 
around  her  neck,  was  swept  from  one  side  of  her 
shoulder  to  the  other  by  the  wind,  which  still 
blew  harshly,  and  it  kept  hitting  the  shutter  and 
lashing  her  face  like  the  wing  of  a  raven  driven 
by  the  storm. 

The  young  girl  rubbed  her  eyes  with  the 
back  of  her  hands,  raising  her  elbows  and 
expanding  her  shoulders,  with  the  first  natural 
gesture  of  a  child  on  awaking  that  wishes  to 
drive  away  sleep.  Her  night-robe,  fastened 
lightly  around  her  neck,  revealed  only  the  out- 


44  GKAZTELLA  : 


lines  of  a  high  and  delicate  waist,  the  youthful 
rounding  of  which  was  scarcely  perceptible 
under  the  covering.  Her  eyes,  large  and  oval 
in  form,  were  of  that  undecided  color  between 
deep  black  and  the  blue  of  the  sea,  which  tones 
down  the  natural  radiance  by  a  certain  softness 
of  expression  and  unites  in  the  woman's  eye  the 
gentleness  of  her  soul  and  the  force  of  her 
passion  in  about  equal  proportions, — a  celestial 
color  which  the  eyes  of  the  Asiatic  and  Italian 
women  borrow  from  the  brilliant  light  of  their 
fiery  days  and  from  the  serene  blue  of  their 
heaven,  their  sea,  and  their  night.  Her  cheeks 
were  full,  round,  plump,  of  a  natural  pale  com- 
plexion, but  a  little  browned  by  the  climate  ;  not 
of  the  unnatural  pallor  of  the  North,  but  of  that 
pure  whiteness  of  the  South,  which  resembles 
the  color  of  marble  exposed  for  centuries  to  the 
air  and  sea.  Her  mouth,  the  lips  of  which 
were  half-opened  and  very  full,  and  heavier 
than  those  of  our  women,  had  the  characteristic 
lines  of  frankness  and  goodness.  Her  teeth, 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  45 

small  but  shining,  sparkled  in  the  fluttering  light 
of  the  torch  like  the  shells  of  pearl  glistening  at 
the  bottom  of  a  wave  under  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

While  she  was  talking  to  her  little  brother 
half  of  her  words  were  carried  to  us  by  the  wind, 
and,  though  somewhat  sharply  accentuated,  they 
sounded  like  sweet  music  to  our  ears.  Her 
features,  as  changeable  as  the  flittering  torch 
that  lighted  them  up,  rapidly  passed  from  sur- 
prise to  alarm,  from  alarm  to  joy,  from  sympathy 
to  laughter.  Then  she  saw  us  standing  behind 
the  trunk  of  the  great  fig-tree,  and  retired  in 
confusion  from  the  window.  Her  hand  abandon- 
ed the  shutter  that  now  began  to  beat  freely 
against  the  wall.  She  only  took  the  time  to 
awaken  her  grandmother  and  half-dress  herself 
when  she  came  to  open  the  door  for  us  under 
the  arcades,  and  tenderly  kissed  her  grandfather 
and  her  brother. 

XIII. 

The  old  grandmother  soon  made  her  appear- 
ance, holding  in  her  hand  a  lamp  of  red  earth- 


46  GRAZIELLA  : 


enware,  which  cast  its  light  upon  her  thin,  pale 
face  and  her  hair,  that  was  as  white  as  the 
skeins  of  wool  which  were  tossed  over  the  table 
at  the  side  of  the  spinning-wheel.  She  kissed 
her  husband's  hand,  and  the  boy  on  the  fore- 
head. The  recital  of  what  had  occurred,  which 
has  taken  up  so  many  of  these  pages,  required 
only  a  few  words  and  gestures  between  the 
different  members  of  this  poor  family.  \Ve  did 
not  hear  the  whole  of  it.  We  stood  apart  from 
them  that  we  might  not  stop  the  natural  out- 
pourings of  their  hearts.  They  were  poor;  we 
were  strangers ;  and  we  owed  them  a  certain 
respect.  The  only  way  we  had  of  showing  it 
was  by  taking  the  place  nearest  the  door  and 
keeping  perfectly  still. 

Graziella  looked  at  us  in  surprise  from  time 
to  time,  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream.  When  the 
father  had  finished  his  story,  the  grandmother 
fell  on  her  knees  by  the  fireside;  Graziella, 
stepping  up  to  the  terrace  above,  brought  in  a 
branch  of  rosemary  and  some  orange-blossoms 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE  47 

like  large  white  stars.  She  took  a  chair,  ar- 
ranged her  flowers  into  a  bouquet,  fastening 
them  with  the  long  pins  that  she  drew  from  her 
hair,  and  placed  them  before  a  little  plaster  image 
o.  the  Virgin,  which  stood  above  the  door,  and 
before  which  a  lamp  was  burning.  We  under- 
stood that  this  was  an  offering  of  thanks  to  her 
divine  protectress  for  having  saved  her  brother 
and  grandfather,  and  we  shared  her  expression 
of  gratitude. 

XIV. 

The  inside  of  the  house  was  as  bare  and,  in 
almost  every  way  as  like  to  the  outside,  as  both 
inside  and  outside  were  like  the  immense  rocks 
that  surrounded  it.  The  walls  were  entirely 
without  plaster  and  only  covered  with  a  thin 
coat  of  whitewash.  The  lizards,  aroused  by  the 
light,  shone  in  the  crevices  of  the  rocks  and 
crept  under  the  fern  leaves  that  served  as  the 
children's  bed.  Nests  of  swallows,  whose  little 
black  heads  peeped  out,  and  whose  restless  eyes 


48  GRAZIELLA  : 

twinkled  in  surprise,  hung  down  from  the  beams, 
still  covered  with  bark,  which  formed  the  roof. 
Graziella  and  her  grandmother  slept  in  the 
second  room  on  a  curious  bedstead,  covered 
with  a  piece  of  coarse  linen.  A  few  baskets  of 
fruits  and  a  mule's  pack-saddle  lay  on  the 
shelf. 

The  fisherman  turned  toward  us  with  a  look 
of  shame  as  he  indicated  by  a  sweep  of  his  arm 
the  poverty  of  his  home ;  then  he  led  us  up  to 
the  terrace,  the  place  of  honor  both  in  the  Orient 
and  in  the  south  of  Italy.  With  the  assistance 
of  Graziella  and  the  child  Beppo,  he  made  us  a 
sort  of  shed  by  placing  one  end  of  our  oars  upon 
the  wrall  surrounding  the  terrace  and  the  other 
end  upon  the  ground,  then  covering  these  with  a 
dozen  or  more  branches  from  a  horse-chestnut 
tree,  recently  cut  on  the  side  of  the  mountain. 
Under  this  shelter  he  spread  a  lot  of  fern-leaves  ; 
he  then  brought  us  two  pieces  of  bread,  some 
fresh  water  and  figs,  and  wished  that  we  might 
sleep  well. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  49 

The  physical  fatigue  and  the  emotions  of  the 
day  threw  us  into  a  sudden  and  deep  sleep. 
When  we  awoke  the  swallows  were  chirping 
around  our  bed  and  picking  from  the  ground  the 
crumbs  of  our  supper;  and  the  sun,  already 
high  in  the  heaven,  heated  the  fagots  of  leaves 
over  our  heads  as  if  they  had  been  in  a  furnace. 

We  lay  a  long  time  stretched  upon  our  fern 
leaves,  lost  in  that  peculiar  state  of  a  half-sleep, 
in  which  the  mental  faculties  perceive  and  think 
before  the  senses  give  one  the  courage  to  get  up 
or  move.  We  exchanged  a  few  inarticulate  words 
that  were  interrupted  by  long  pauses  and  were 
lost  in  our  dreams.  The  experiences  of  the  pre- 
vious day,  the  boat  rolling  under  our  feet,  the 
angry  sea,  the  inapproachable  rocks  of  the  coast, 
the  face  of  Graziella  looking  out  between  the 
two  shutters  and  in  the  light  of  the  torch, —  all 
these  visions  flitted  before  us  confusedly  and 
without  connection  or  appreciation. 

We  were  attracted  from  this  drowsiness  by  the 
sobs  and  complaints  of  the  old  grandmother,  who 
4 


50  GRA7JRLLA  : 


was  talking  to  her  husband  inside  of  the  house. 
The  chimney,  which  ran  through  the  terrace, 
brought  us  the  sound  of  the  voices,  so  that  we 
could  hear  some  words  of  the  conversation.  The 
poor  woman  was  lamenting  the  loss  of  her  jars, 
of  the  anchor,  of  the  ropes  that  were  almost  new, 
and,  above  all,  of  the  beautiful  sails  woven  by 
her  own  hands  from  her  own  hemp,  all  of  which 
we  had  been  cruel  enough  to  throw  into  the  sea 
to  save  our  own  lives. 

"What  business  had  you,"  she  asked  of  the 
old  man,  who  was  frightened  into  silence,  "  to 
take  these  two  strangers,  these  two  Frenchmen, 
with  you  ?  Don't  you  know  that  they  are  pagans 
(pagani,)  and  that  they  always  bring  misfortune 
with  their  wickedness  ?  The  saints  have  punished 
you  for  it.  They  have  stripped  us  of  our  riches, 
and  you  may  still  thank  them  that  they  have  not 
taken  away  our  souls." 

The  poor  man  did  not  know  what  to  say.  But 
Graziella,  with  the  authority  and  impatience  of  a 
spoiled  child,  to  whom  the  grandmother  always 


A    STORY   OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  51 

gives  way,  protested  against  these  reproaches  as 
unjust,  and  taking  the  part  of  the  old  man,  said 
to  her  grandmother : 

"  Who  tells  you  that  these  strangers  are  pagans? 
Are  pagans  ever  so  compassionate  for  the  trials 
of  poor  people  as  these  gentlemen  have  shown 
themselves  ?  Do  pagans  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross  like  ourselves  before  the  statues  of  the 
saints  ?  Now,  let  me  tell  you  that,  yesterday 
evening,  when  you  had  fallen  on  your  knees  to 
return  thanks  to  God,  and  when  I  had  adorned 
the  image  of  the  Madonna  with  flowers,  I  saw 
them  bow  their  heads  as  if  they  were  praying, 
make  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  their  breasts, 
and  I  even  saw  a  tear  glisten  in  the  eye  of  the 
younger  and  fall  upon  his  hand." 

"  A  tear,  indeed !  "  the  old  woman  sharply  ex- 
claimed. "  It  was  nothing  but  a  drop  of  sea 
water  that  fell  from  his  hair." 

"  I  tell  you  that  it  was  a  tear,"  said  Graziella, 
angrily.  "  The  wind  that  was  blowing  so  fiercely 
had  plenty  of  time  to  dry  his  hair  from  the  time 


5  2  CRAZIFJ.r.A  : 

he  left  the  beach  until  he  had  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  cliff.  Bat  the  wind  can  not  dry  the  heart, 
and  I  tell  you  again  that  there  was  water  in  his 
eye." 

We  understood  that  we  had  an  all-powerful 
friend  in  that  house,  for  the  grandmother 
did  not  answer,  nor  did  she  complain  any 
more. 

XV. 

We  hastened  to  descend  into  the  house  in 
order  to  thank  the  poor  family  for  the  hospitality 
we  had  received  at  their  hands.  We  found  the 
fisherman,  his  wife,  Beppo,  Graziella,  and  even 
the  little  children  preparing  to  go  down  to  the 
sea-shore  to  visit  the  abandoned  boat,  and  to  see 
if  it  was  sufficiently  well  fastened  to  withstand 
the  storm  which  was  still  raging.  We  went  down 
with  them,  our  heads  hanging,  timid  as  guests 
who  have  brought  misfortune  into  a  family,  and 
who  are  not  sure  of  the  feelings  entertained  foJ 
them. 


A    STORY   OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  53 

The  fisherman  and  his  wife  walked  several 
paces  in  front  of  us  all;  Graziella,  holding  one 
of  her  little  brothers  by  the  hand  and  carrying 
the  other  in  her  arms,  came  after ;  we  followed 
silently  in  the  rear.  At  the  last  turning  of  the 
steps,  one  could  see  the  shoals  that  had  hitherto 
been  concealed  by  a  rock  which  intervened,  and 
\ve  heard  a  cry  of  pain  from  both  the  fisherman 
and  his  wife  as  they  came  to  this  point.  We 
saw  them  lift  their  naked  arms  toward  heaven, 
wring  their  hands  as  if  in  convulsions  of  despair, 
strike  their  foreheads,  and  tear  out  bunches  of 
their  white  hairs,  which  the  wind  tossed  among 
the  rocks. 

Graziella  and  the  children  soon  mingled  their 
lamentations  with  the  others.  Jumping  down 
the  last  step  of  the  stairway,  they  all  rushed 
toward  the  sea,  and  advanced  into  the  very 
foam  made  by  the  immense  waves  driven  into 
the  shore,  and  there  threw  themselves  down 
upon  the  beach,  some  on  their  knees  and  the 
others  flat  on  their  faces.  The  old  woman  lay 


54  CRAZIELLA: 


with  her  face  concealed  in  her  hands  and  her 
head  in  the  wet  sand. 

We  looked  upon  this  scene  of  despair  from  the 
height  of  the  last  rock  of  the  stairway,  without 
having  the  courage  to  advance  or  the  decision 
to  retrace  our  footsteps.  The  boat  had  been 
securely  fastened,  but  there  being  no  anchor  to 
hold  the  back  part  of  it  steady,  it  had  been 
tossed  about  by  the  waves  during  the  night,  and 
torn  to  pieces  on  the  sharp  points  of  the  pro- 
jecting rocks,  which  should  have  protected  it. 
Half  of  the  poor  bark  was  still  held  by  the  rope 
with  which  we  had  fastened  it.  It  was  beating 
itself  against  the  cliff  with  a  dismal  sound,  like 
the  last,  hoarse,  desperate  groanings  of  a  dying 
man. 

The  other  parts  of  the  hull  —  the  stern,  the 
mast,  the  painted  seats,  and  the  sides  —  were 
scattered  here  and  there  on  the  beach,  like  the 
limbs  of  a  corpse  torn  asunder  by  wolves  after  a 
fight.  When  we  arrived  at  the  edge  of  the 
water,  the  old  fisherman  was  running  from  one 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  55 


to  the  other  of  these  remnants.  He  lifted  them 
up  successively,  stared  at  them  with  a  tearless 
eye,  and  let  them  fall  to  walk  further  on.  Gra- 
ziella  was  weeping,  seated  on  the  ground,  her 
head  buried  in  her  apron.  The  half  naked 
children  ran  into  the  shallow  water,  crying  after 
the  floating  boards  and  endeavoring  to  turn 
their  course  toward  the  shore. 

As  to  the  old  woman,  she  did  not  cease  sob- 
bing for  a  moment,  nor  talking  while  she  sobbed. 
We  could  only  catch  confused  words  or  discon- 
nected sentences  that  rent  the  air  and  pierced 
our  hearts. 

"  Oh,  cruel  sea  !  deaf  sea !  worse  than  the 
demons  of  hell  !  without  heart  and  without 
honor!"  she  cried,  with  that  wonderful  fluency 
of  injured  persons,  while  she  shook  her  clenched 
fist  at  the  waves.  "  Why  did  you  not  take  us, 
all  of  us,  since  you  have  taken  that  with  which 
we  earned  our  bread  ?  There!  There!  There! 
You  shall  take  me  in  pieces,  if  you  will  not  take 
me  all  at  once." 


56  GRAZIELLA 


While  speaking  these  words  she  raised  herself" 
upon  her  knees,  and  tearing  off  pieces  of  her 
dress  and  pulling  handfuls  of  hair  out  of  her 
head,  she  threw  them  vehemently  into  the  sea. 
She  threatened  the  sea  with  her  closed  hand, 
and  kicked  at  the  foam  as  it  came  up  on  the 
beach  ;  then,  passing  alternately  from  anger  to 
grief,  and  from  terrible  convulsions  to  resigna- 
tion, she  again  sat  down  in  the  sand,  leaned  her 
head  upon  her  hands,  and,  weeping  all  the 
while,  looked  around  on  the  loose  planks  which 
were  beating  up  against  the  rocks. 

"  Poor  boat !  "  she  cried,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
remains  of  some  dear  friend  recently  taken  from 
life  and  love;  "is  this  the  end  that  awaited 
thee  ?  Did  we  not  owe  it  to  thy  faithful  services 
to  perish  with  thee  —  perish  together  as  we  have 
lived  together  ?  Here  in  pieces,  in  shreds,  in 
dust,  but  crying  to  us,  all  the  night  long,  on  the 
rock,  where  we  should  have  rushed  to  save  thee.' 
What  canst  thou  think  of  us?  Thou  hast  served 
us  well,  and  we  have  betrayed,  abandoned,  and 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  57 

lost  thee.  Lost  so  near  our  house,  and  within 
the  reach  of  thy  master's  voice  !  Thrown  up 
upon  the  beach,  like  the  remains  of  a  faithful 
dog  that  the  wave  returns  to  the  feet  of  the 
master  who  has  drowned  it." 

Then  the  tears  choked  her  utterance,  and  she 
began  to  go  over  the  enumeration  of  all  the  good 
qualities  of  the  boat,  of  all  the  money  it  had 
cost,  of  all  the  recollections  which  she  cherished 
for  the  floating  remnants. 

"  Was  it  for  this  that  we  had  thee  refitted  and 
repainted  after  the  last  fishing?  Was  it  for  this 
that  my  poor  boy,  before  he  died  and  left  three 
children  without  father  or  mother,  built  thee 
with  so  much  care  and  love,  and  almost  entirely 
with  his  own  hands  ?  When  I  used  to  come 
and  take  the  baskets  of  fish  out  of  the  hold,  1 
could  always  recognize  the  marks  of  his  hatchet 
in  the  wood,  and  I  kissed  the  places  in  memory 
of  him.  Now  it  is  only  the  shark  that  kisses 
them.  During  the  long  winter  evenings  he  him- 
self had  carved  the  little  image  of  St.  Francis 


GRAZIELLA 


out  of  wood  with  his  knife,  and  afterwards  placed 
it  at  the  prow  to  protect  the  boat  from  the  storm. 
Oh,  pitiless  Saint !  how  has  he  shown  his  grati- 
tude ?  What  has  he  done  with  my  son,  with  his 
wife,  and  the  boat  left  to  earn  a  living  for  his 
poor  children  ?  How  has  he  protected  himself 
and  where  is  his  own  image,  now  the  plaything 
of  the  waves  ?  " 

"  Mother!  mother  !  "  cried  one  of  the  children, 
picking  from  the  beach  between  two  rocks  a  piece 
of  the  boat,  cast  up  by  a  wave,  "  here  is  the 
Saint!" 

The  poor  woman  forgot  all  her  anger  and  all 
her  blasphemy,  jumped  toward  the  child  and 
into  the  water,  took  the  piece  of  board  carved  by 
her  son,  and,  bathing  it  in  tears,  carried  it  to  her 
lips.  Then  she  sat  down  and  nothing  more  was 
heard  from  her. 

XVL 

We  assisted  Beppo  and  the  old  man  in  picking 
up,  one  by  one,  the  pieces  of  the  boat  that  were 
distributed  along  the  beach.  We  drew  the  main 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  59 

part  of  it  further  in  upon  the  shore.  We  made 
a  pile  of  these  remnants,  as  some  of  the  planks 
and  iron  fastenings  might  still  be  of  use  to  these 
poor  people  ;  we  rolled  large  stones  over  the 
whole,  so  that  if  the  sea  should  get  higher,  the 
waves  might  not  again  scatter  them.  Then  we 
began  to  retrace  our  steps  toward  the  house, 
walking  sadly  and  far  behind  the  family.  Both 
the  want  of  a  boat  and  the  state  of  the  sea  pre- 
cluded a  departure  for  the  present. 

After  having  partaken,  in  silence  and  with 
downcast  eyes,  of  a  bit  of  bread  and  some  goat's 
milk,  which  Graziella  brought  to  us  under  the 
shade  of  the  fig-tree  near  the  fountain,  we  left 
the  house  to  its  mourning  and  betook  ourselves 
to  walking  about  under  the  vine-arbor  and  the 
olive-trees  that  grew  upon  the  high  table-land 
of  the  island. 

XVII. 

My  friend  and  I  scarcely  spoke  to  each  other, 
but  we  both  had  the  same  thought,  and  by  a. 
common  instinct  we  sought  the  pathways  that 


60  GRAZ1ELLA  : 


led  to  the  eastern  point  of  the  island  and  would 
bring  us  to  the  village  of  Procida,  near  by. 
Some  herdsmen  and  young  girls  in  Grecian  cos- 
tume whom  we  met,  and  most  of  whom  carried 
jugs  of  oil  on  their  heads,  directed  us  into  the 
right  way  when  we  had  strayed  from  it.  We 
arrived  at  the  village  after  an  hour's  walk. 

"  This  has  been  a  sad  affair,"  said  my  friend 
to  me. 

"  We  must  make  it  a  joyful  one  for  these  good 
people,"  I  answered. 

"  I  have  thought  of  the  same  thing,"  said  he  ; 
and  he  rattled  his  purse,  which  still  contained  a 
goodly  number  of  golden  sequins. 

"  So  have  I,  but  I  have  only  five  or  six  sequins 
with  me.  I  shared  equally  in  the  catastrophe, 
and  I  should  also  make  half  of  the  reparation." 

"  For  the  present  I  am  the  richer  of  the  two," 
replied  my  friend.  "  I  have  an  account  with  a 
banker  in  Naples.  I  will  advance  what  is 
necessary,  and  we  will  arrange  our  accounts  in 
France." 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  6l 


XVIII. 

In  talking  the  matter  over,  we  slowly  de- 
scended the  steep  streets  of  Procida.  It  was 
not  long  before  we  arrived  at  the  "marine,"  as 
the  harbors  in  the  Archipelago  and  on  the  coast 
of  Italy  are  called.  The  beach  was  covered 
with  boats  of  Ischia,  Procida  and  Naples,  which 
had  been  overtaken  by  the  tempest  of  the  even- 
ing before  and  obliged  to  seek  safety  in  these 
waters.  Sailors  and  fishermen  were  sleeping  in 
the  sun,  lulled  by  the  monotonous  roar  of  the 
waves,  and  scattered  about  in  groups  laughing 
and  talking.  From  our  dress,  and  particularly 
from  the  shape  of  the  caps  which  we  wore,  they 
took  us  to  be  sailors  from  Tuscany  or  Genoa,  left 
at  Procida  by  one  of  the  brigs  that  carry  oil  or 
the  wine  of  Ischia. 

We  walked  up  and  down  the  beach,  searching 
with  our  eyes  for  a  substantial  and  well-rigged 
bark,  that  could  be  easily  handled  by  two  men, 
and  as  nearly  as  possible  of  the  same  si/e  and 


62  GRAZIELLA : 

shape  as  the  one  which  \vc  had  lost.  We  had  no 
trouble  finding  one.  It  belonged  to  a  rich  fish- 

O  o 

erman  of  the  island,  who  was  the  fortunate  pos- 
sessor of  many  others.  This  one  had  only  seen 
a  few  months  of  service.  We  went  immediately 
to  see  the  owner,  whose  house  was  pointed  out 
to  us  by  the  children  in  the  street. 

We  found  the  man  to  be  cheerful,  pleasant  and 
good-hearted.  He  was  visibly  affected  by  the 
account  of  the  disaster  which  we  gave  him  and 
of  the  desolation  of  his  poor  fellow-countryman 
of  Procida.  lie  did  not  abate  a  single  piastre  in 
the  price  which  he  had  fixed  upon  the  boat,  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  did  not  charge  more  for  it 
than  it  was  really  worth,  and,  the  trade  con- 
cluded, my  friend  paid  him  thirty-two  golden 
sequins  on  the  spot.  For  this  sum  the  boat  and 
new  rigging,  which  included  sails,  jars,  ropes  and 
anchor,  were  made  over  to  us. 

We  then  made  the  equipment  complete  by  pur- 
chasing from  a  junk-dealer  two  woolen  cloaks, 
one  for  the  old  man  and  the  other  for  the  boy  ; 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  63 

to  this  we  added  nets  of  different  kinds  and 
sizes,  baskets  for  fish,  and  some  household  uten- 
sils for  the  use  of  the  women.  We  also  agreed 
with  the  dealer  in  boats  that  we  would  pay  him 
three  sequins  extra  on  the  morrow,  if  he  would 
have  the  boat  taken  that  same  day  to  a  certain 
point  of  the  island  which  we  designated.  As  the 
storm  had  abated  considerably,  and  as  the  high 
land  of  the  island  protected  the  sea  from  the 
wind  to  a  great  extent,  he  agreed  to  this  propo- 
sition, and  we  took  our  departure  to  walk  back 
to  Andrea's  little  house. 

XIX. 

We  walked  slowly,  sitting  down  at  times  under 
the  trees,  under  the  shade  of  every  grape-arbor, 
chatting,  dreaming,  dickering  with  all  the  young 
Procidane  for  the  baskets  of  figs,  medlars  and 
raisins,  which  the}-  carried,  and  giving  the  hours 
time  to  slip  by.  When,  from  the  height  of  a 
promontory,  we  saw  our  boat  gliding  noiselessly 
into  shore,  we  hastened  our  steps  in  order  to 


64  CRAZTRT.LA  : 

arrive  at  the  house  at  the  same  time  as  the 
rowers. 

We  could  hear  neither  footstep  nor  voice  within 
the  little  house  or  among  the  vines  that  sur- 
rounded it.  Two  beautiful  doves  with  large, 
splendid  plumage  and  white  wings  striped  with 
black,  picked  at  the  grain  of  mais  on  the  wall  of 
the  terrace,  and  this  was  the  only  sign  of  life 
that  seemed  to  animate  the  place.  We  ascended 
to  the  terrace  without  noise,  where  we  found  the 
whole  family  lost  in  sleep.  All,  except  the 
children,  whose  pretty  heads  were  lying  side  by 
side  in  the  arms  of  Graziella,  slept  in  that  atti- 
tude of  weariness  produced  by  sorrow. 

The  old  mother's  head  was  laid  upon  her 
knees,  and  her  heavy  breathing  came  oat  like 
sobs.  The  grandfather  was  stretched  out  on  his 
back,  his  arms  folded,  in  the  glaring  sun.  The 
swallows  just  grazed  his  white  hair  as  they  flew 
by  him.  The  flies  literally  covered  his  forehead, 
dripping  with  sweat.  Two  hollow  furrows  run- 
ning down  to  his  mouth  showed  that  the  strength 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  65 

of  the  man  had  given  away  and  that  he  had  fallen 
asleep  while  weeping. 

This  sight  touched  our  hearts,  but  the  thought 
of  the  happiness  that  we  were  about  to  bring 
these  poor  people  consoled  us.  We  awakened 
them,  and  as  we  did  so,  we  threw  at  the  feet  of 
Graziella  and  her  little  brothers,  the  fresh  bread, 
the  cheese,  the  salt  meat,  the  grapes,  the  oranges 
and  the  figs  with  which  we  had  supplied  our- 
selves during  the  walk.  The  young  girl  and  the 
children  did  not  dare  to  get  up  under  this  rain 
of  abundance  which  showered  down  as  from  the 
heavens  upon  them.  The  father  thanked  us  for 
his  family.  The  grandmother  regarded  the  scene 
with  a  dry,  dull  eye,  and  yet  the  expression  of 
her  face  was  one  of  anger  rather  than  of  indif- 
ference. 

"  Come,  Andrea,"  said  my  friend  to  the  old 
man;  "a  man  should  not  weep  twice  for  that 
which  he  can  acquire  again  with  work  and 
courage.  There  are  still  planks  in  the  trees  of 
the  forest  and  sails  in  the  growing  hemp.  There 
5 


66  GRAZIELLA  : 

is  nothing  but  a  man's  life  worn  out  by  grief  that 
can  not  be  regained.  One  day  of  tears  con- 
sumes more  force  than  a  year  of  work.  Come 
down  with  us  and  bring  your  wife  and  children. 
We  are  your  sailors  and  we  will  assist  you  in 
bringing  up  here  this  very  evening  what  is  left 
of  our  wreck.  You  shall  make  fences  of  it,  beds, 
tables,  furniture  of  ail  sorts,  and  one  day,  in  your 
old  age,  it  will  bring  joy  to  your  heart  to  sleep 
tranquilly  among  the  very  planks  that  once 
cradled  you  upon  the  ocean." 

"They  may  at  least  serve  to  make  us  our 
coffins,"  grumbled  the  old  woman. 

XX. 

They  all  got  up,  however,  and  followed  us  as 
we  slowly  descended  the  steps  to  the  shore,  but 
we  perceived  that  the  sight  of  the  sea  and  the 
sound  of  the  surge  were  painful  to  them. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  surprise 
and  joy  of  these  poor  people  as  from  the  last 
rocks  of  the  stairway  they  saw  the  beautiful  new 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  67 

boat  glittering  in  the  sun,  and  drawn  up  on  the 
sand  and  along  side  of  what  was  left  of  the  old 
one,  and  when  my  friend  said  to  them : 

"It  is  yours." 

They  all  fell  on  their  knees  as  if  overcome  by 
the  same  joy,  each  one  on  the  particular  step 
that  had  been  reached,  to  thank  God  before  they 
could  find  words  to  thank  us.  But  their  happi- 
ness was  all  the  thanks  we  wanted. 

They  arose  at  the  call  of  my  friend  and  ran 
swiftly  toward  the  boat.  They  went  around  it 
at  first  shyly  and  at  a  distance,  as  if  they  feared 
that  it  was  a  magic  boat  which  might  vanish  if 

O  O 

they  touched  it.  Then  they  approached  nearer 
to  it,  then  laid  their  hands  on  it,  and  afterwards 
carried  the  hands  that  had  touched  it  to  their 
foreheads  and  their  lips.  Finally  they  cried  out 
in  exclamations  of  admiration  and  joy,  and,  join- 
ing hands,  from  the  old  woman  down  to  the 
smallest  child,  they  danced  around  it. 


68  GRAZIELLA  •• 


XXI. 

Beppo  was  the  first  to  step  into  the  boat. 
Leaning  over  from  the  little  deck  at  the  pro\v, 
he  drew  from  the  hold,  one  by  one,  all  the  parts 
of  the  rigging  which  we  had  provided  and 
stowed  away  there  :  the  anchor,  the  ropes,  the 
four-handled  jars,  the  handsome  new  sails,  the 
baskets,  and  the  cloaks  with  wide  sleeves  ;  he 
struck  the  anchor  and  made  it  ring;  he  raised 
the  oars  above  his  head  ;  he  unrolled  the  sails  ; 
he  felt  the  texture  of  the  cloth  of  the  cloaks;  he 
showed  all  these  rich  possessions  to  his  grand- 
father, his  grandmother,  his  sister,  with  exclam- 
ations and  gestures  of  uncontrollable  joy.  The 
old  man,  his  wife,  Graziella, — all  wept  as  they 
looked  first  at  the  boat  and  then  at  us. 

The  sailors  who  had  brought  the  boat  from 
the  town  had  concealed  themselves  behind  the 
rocks,  and  they  wept  too.  Everybody  blessed 
us.  Graziella,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground  and  much  more  serious  than  the  rest  in 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  69 


her  gratitude,  approached  her  grandmother,  and 
I  heard  her  whisper,  as  she  pointed  her  finger 
towards  us : 

"  You  said  that  they  were  pagans,  but  I  told 
you  that  they  might  rather  be  angels.  Now, 
which  of  us  was  right?  " 

The  old  woman  threw  herself  at  our  feet  and 
pleaded  for  pardon  that  she  had  suspected  us. 
From  that  time  she  loved  us  almost  as  dearly  as 
she  did  her  granddaughter  or  Beppo. 

XXII. 

Having  paid  the  sailors  from  Procida  the 
three  sequins  as  agreed  upon,  we  told  them  that 
they  might  go.  Each  of  us  took  from  the  hold 
some  one  article  of  the  rigging,  which  we  carried 
to  the  house  instead  of  the  remnants, — all  the 
wealth  of  this  happy  family.  In  the  evening 
after  supper  and  when  the  lamp  had  been  light- 
ed, Beppo  took  from  the  head  of  his  grand- 
mother's bed  the  battered  piece  of  wood  from 
which  his  father  had  carved  the  rude  imasre  of 


70  GRAZTF.T.LA  : 


St.  Francis;  he  took  a  saw  and  cut  into  it,  then 
planed  it  down  with  his  knife  and  finally  re- 
polished  and  repainted  it.  He  proposed  on  the 
following  morning  to  fix  it  on  the  inside  of  the 
prow,  in  order  that  the  new  boat  might  have 
something  of  the  old  about  it. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  the  people  of  antiquity, 
when  they  had  raised  a  temple  on  the  site  of 
one  which  had  been  torn  down,  always  took 
care  to  introduce  into  the  new  building  some  of 
the  materials,  or  at  least  a  column,  of  the  old 
one,  in  order  to  preserve  something  of  the  old 
and  sacred  in  the  modern,  and  in  order  that  the 
souvenir,  crude  and  worn,  should  have  its  wor- 
ship and  its  influence  over  the  heart,  even 
among  the  master-pieces  of  the  new  sanctuary. 

Man  is  everywhere  the  same.  Human  nature 
has  always  the  same  instincts,  which  it  exercises 
in  the  Parthenon,  in  St.  Peter's  of  Rome,  or  in  a 
poor  fisherman's  boat  on  the  shoals  of  Procida. 


A    STORY  OF.   ITALIAN  LOVE.  71 

XXIII. 

This  night  was  perhaps  the  happiest  of  all  the 
nights  that  Providence  had  destined  for  this 
little  house,  from  the  time  it  sprang  up  from 
the  rocks  until  the  moment  it  should  crumble 
into  the  dust.  We  slept  amid  the  gusts  of  wind 
through  the  olive-trees,  the  sound  of  the  waves 
on  the  coast,  and  the  rays  of  the  moon  peeping 
over  the  terrace.  On  awaking  in  the  morning, 
the  sky  was  as  smooth  as  a  polished  crystal,  the 
sea  dark  and  striped  with  foam,  as  if  sweating 
from  swiftness  and  fatigue;  but  the  wind  roared 
more  furiously  than  ever.  The  white  spray  from 
the  waves  at  the  point  of  Cape  Miseno  rose 
higher  than  on  the  previous  evening.  It  bathed 
the  coast  of  Cumce  in  an  ebb  and  flow  of  lumi- 
nous fog,  which  never  ceased  to  rise  and  fall 
alternately.  There  was  not  a  sail  to  be  seen  in 
the  Gulf  of  Gae'ta  or  that  of  Ba'ui.  The 
sea-swallows  whipped  the  waves  with  their 
white  wings  —  the  only  birds  that  find  their 


72  CRAZIELLA: 


element  in  the  storm,  and  that  shriek  with  joy 
during  shipwrecks,  like  the  cursed  inhabitants 
of  the  Bay  of  the  Dead,  who  await  their  prey  in 
the  ships  lost  at  sea. 

We  found,  without,  however,  saying  anything 
about  it  to  each  other,  a  secret  pleasure  in  being 
thus  imprisoned  by  the  bad  weather  in  the 
house  and  vineyard  belonging  to  the  old  fisher- 
man. It  gave  us  the  time  to  have  a  full  taste 
of  the  novelty  which  our  situation  afforded,  and 
to  enjoy  the  happiness  of  this  poor  family,  to 
which  we  had  become  attached  like  children. 

The  wind  and  heavy  sea  kept  us  there  nine 
whole  days.  We  had  wished,  and  I  more  than 
my  friend,  that  the  storm  would  never  cease, 
and  that  some  uncontrollable  and  fatal  necessity 
would  keep  us  for  years  where  we  found  our- 
selves such  happy  captives.  The  days  rolled 
by  insensibly,  one  like  another.  Nothing  can 
prove  better  how  little  is  essential  to  happiness 
when  the  heart  is  young  and  enjoys  every  thing. 
In  the  same  way  the  simplest  food  sustains  and 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  73 

renews  the  life  of  the  body  when  it  is  seasoned 
by  a  good  appetite,  and  when  the  physical 
organs  are  fresh  and  healthy. 

XXIV. 

To  awake  at  the  cry  of  the  sea-swallows  that 
flitted  about  our  roof  of  leaves  which  covered 
the  terrace  where  we  slept;  to  listen  to  the 
childish  voice  of  Graziella,  who  sang  softly  in 
the  vineyard  from  fear  of  disturbing  the  sleep  of 
the  strangers  ;  to  run  quickly  down  to  the  sea- 
shore, plunge  into  the  waves  and  swim  about  a 
few  minutes  in  a  little  basin,  in  which  the  fine 
sand  glittered  through  the  transparency  of  the 
deep  waters,  and  where  the  surge  and  foam  did 
not  penetrate  ;  to  return  to  the  house  slowly  in 
order  that  our  hair  and  shoulders,  dripping  from 
the  bath,  might  dry  in  the  sun's  rays  ;  to  break- 
fast among  the  vines  on  a  piece  of  bread  and 
cheese  which  the  young  girl  brought  to  us  and 
shared  with  us  ;  to  drink  the  fresh,  clear  water 
of  the  spring,  which  she  carried  in  a  little, 


74  GiKAZIELLA: 


oblong  earthen  jar,  blushingly  holding  it  on  her 
arm  as  our  lips  sought  its  edge  ;  afterwards,  to 
help  the  family  in  the  thousand  little  things 
necessary  to  do  about  a  country  house  and  gar- 
den;  to  repair  the  face  of  the  walled  fence  that 
surrounded  the  vineyard  and  supported  the  ter- 
races ;  to  pick  up  the  great  stones  which  had 
rolled,  during  the  winter  months,  from  the 
height  of  the  walls  down  upon  the  young  vines, 
and  encroached  upon  the  little  space  left 
between  the  stocks  for  cultivation  ;  to  carry  into 
the  cellar  those  great  yellow  gourds,  each  one  of 
which  was  a  load  for  a  man,  and  then  to  cut 
their  vines,  that  cover  the  ground  with  their 
large  leaves  and  trip  up  the  foot  of  the  walker 
in  their  network  ;  to  run  between  each  row  of 
stocks  and  under  the  arbors  a  little  ditch  in  the 
dry  ground,  that  the  rains  might  gather  and 
keep  the  earth  supplied  with  water  tor  a  longer 
time  ;  to  dig,  for  the  same  use,  little  wells  or 
funnels  at  the  foot  of  the  fig  and  lemon  trees  ;  — 
these  were  our  occupations  of  the  morning,  until 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE. 


75 


the  hour  when  the  rays  of  the  sun  darted 
straight  down  upon  the  roof,  upon  the  garden, 
upon  the  yard,  and  forced  us  to  seek  the  shade 
of  the  arbors,  where  the  transparency  of  the 
leaves  tinged  the  fluttering  shadows  with  a  rich, 
warm  and  golden  color 


76 


PART     SECOND. 

I. 

/~*  RAZIELLA  would  then  return  into  the 
—  house  to  sit  down  by  her  grandmother  and 
sew,  or  to  prepare  the  meal  which  we  took  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  As  to  the  old  fisherman  and 
Beppo,  they  would  pass  whole  days  at  the  water's 
edge  in  completing  the  rigging  of  the  boat,  in 
putting  on  such  finishing  touches  as  their  love  for 
their  new  property  inspired,  and  in  testing  their 
nets  under  the  protection  of  the  rocks.  They 
always  brought  us,  for  our  mid-day  meal,  crabs  or 
salt  water  eels,  the  skins  of  which  glowed  more 
than  molten  lead.  These  the  old  grandmother 
would  fry  in  olive  oil.  The  oil  itself  was  pre- 
served, according  to  the  custom  of  the  country, 
at  the  bottom  of  a  little  well  duo;  out  of  a  rock 


7  8  GRAZIELLA: 


near  the  house,  and  covered  with  a  great  stone, 
to  which  an  iron  ring  was  attached.  Some 
cucumbers,  cut  into  slices  and  fried,  and  some 
fresh  shell-fish,  very  much  like  muscles,  which 
are  called  frutti  ill  marc  (sea-fruit),  made  up  our 
frugal  dinner,  the  principal  and  most  nourishing 
meal  of  the  day.  Muscatel  grapes,  in  long  yel- 
low bunches,  gathered  in  the  morning  by  Graz- 
iella,  still  left  on  their  stocks  and  covered  with 
their  leaves,  were  served  on  basket  plates  braided 
in  wicker,  and  formed  the  dessert.  A  sprig  or 
two  of  green,  raw  fennel,  mixed  with  pepper, 
whose  anise-like  odor  perfumes  the  lips  and 
lightens  the  heart,  took  the  place  of  liqueurs 
and  coffee,  after  the  custom  of  the  sailors  and 
peasants  of  Naples. 

After  dinner,  my  friend  and  I  would  seek  out 
some  cool  and  shaded  place,  high  up  on  the 
cliff,  where  we  could  have  a  view  of  the  sea  and 
the  coast  of  Bai'a;  there  we  passed  the  hottest 
hours  of  the  day  in  looking,  reading  and  dream- 
ing, until  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  79 

II. 

We  had  saved  from  the  waves  only  three 
books,  and  saved  these  because  they  happened 
not  to  be  in  the  valise  which  we  were  obliged  to 
throw  into  the  sea.  One  was  a  little  Italian 
work  by  Hugo  Foscolo,  entitled  "  The  Letters  of 
Jacopo  Ortis,"  a  kind  of  "  Werther,"  partly  polit- 
ical and  partly  romantic,  in  which  the  love  of 
his  country's  liberty  is  mingled  in  the  heart  of  a 
young  Italian  with  his  love  for  a  pretty  Venetian 
girl.  This  double  enthusiasm,  nourished  by  the 
double  fire  of  the  lover  and  the  patriot,  inflames 
the  soul  of  Ortis  with  a  burning  fever,  and  too 
powerful  to  be  resisted  by  the  sensitive  and 
weakly  man,  it  at  last  drives  him  to  a  suicide's 
grave.  The  book,  an  almost  literal  but  highly 
colored  and  luminous  copy  of  Goethe's  "Wer- 
ther," was  at  that  time  in  the  hands  of  all  the 
young  men  who,  like  us,  nourished  in  their  sculs 
the  two  dreams  of  every  man  fitted  to  dream  of 
great  things  —  LOVE  and  LIBERTY. 


So  GRAZIELLA: 


III. 

The  police  of  Donaparte  and  Murat  had  pro- 
scribed both  the  author  and  the  book.  The 
author  found  an  asylum  in  the  hearts  of  Italian 
patriots  and  the  liberal  thinkers  of  all  Europe. 
The  book  had  its  sanctuary  in  the  breasts  of 
young  men  like  us;  \ve  concealed  it  there  that 
we  might  breathe  in  its  precepts. 

Of  the  other  two  volumes  that  we  had  saved, 
one  was  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre's  "  Paul  and 
Virginia,"  that  manual  of  ingenuous  love;  a 
book  that  reminds  one  of  a  page  in  the  world's 
infancy,  torn  from  the  history  of  the  human 
heart,  preserved  in  all  its  purity,  and  wet  with 
tears  contagious  for  all  eyes  of  sixteen  years. 

The  other  was  a  volume  of  Tacitus,  the  pages 
soiled  with  debauch,  shame  and  blood,  but  in 
which  the  stoic  virtue  puts  its  impress  upon  the 
apparent  impassibility  of  history,  to  incite  those 
who  can  understand  it  to  a  hatred  of  oppression, 
to  the  power  of  great  devotions,  and  to  an  ambi- 
tion for  a  martyr's  death. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  8 1 

It  happened  that  these  three  books  corres- 
ponded exactly  to  the  three  sentiments  which,  at 
that  time,  as  if  by  presentiment,  were  foremost 
in  our  young  spirits, —  love;  enthusiasm  for  the 
liberation  of  Italy  and  France ;  ambition  for  politi- 
cal action  and  the  commotion  of  grand  events, 
the  likeness  of  which  was  presented  by  Tacitus, 
and  for  which  he  steeped  our  young  souls  in  the 
blood  of  his  pencil  and  in  the  fire  of  ancient 
heroism.  We  read  aloud,  turn  by  turn,  now 
stopping  to  admire,  then  to  weep,  then  to  dream. 
We  broke  in  upon  these  readings  with  long 
pauses  and  an  exchange  of  exclamations,  which 
were  the  spontaneous  outbursts  of  our  hearts, 
carried  away  by  the  wind  along  with  our 
dreams. 

IV. 

In  fancy  we  placed  ourselves  in  the  fictitious 
or  actual  situations  which  the  poet  or  historian 
reproduced  for  us.  We  formed  in  our  own  minds 
an  ideal  of  the  lover  or  the  patriot,  of  private 
life  or  of  public  life,  of  happiness  or  of  virtue. 
6 


GRAZIELLA  : 


We  found  a  secret  pleasure  in  associating  with 
ourselves  those  great  circumstances  and  wonder- 
ful events;  those  revolutionary  times  in  which 
the  obscurest  of  men  are  revealed  to  the  multi- 
tude by  genius,  and  called,  as  if  by  name,  to 
battle  against  tyranny  and  to  save  nations  ;  then, 
victims  to  the  ingratitude  and  instability  of 
nations,  to  meet  death  on  the  scaffold,  in  the  face 
of  the  age  that  forgets  them,  but  also  in  the 
face  of  a  posterity  that  shall  avenge  them. 

There  was  no  role,  however  heroic  it  might  be, 
that  would  not  have  found  our  souls  equal  to  the 
situation.  We  were  prepared  for  every  thing, 
and  if  fortune  should  not  one  day  destine  us  to 
these  great  trials  which  we  already  anticipated 
in  imagination,  we  revenged  ourselves  in  advance 
by  despising  fortune.  We  cherished  in  our 
hearts  the  consolation  of  heroic  minds  that,  if 
our  life  remained  useless,  common  and  obscure, 
it  was  fortune  that  failed  to  meet  our  ambition, 
and  not  our  ambition  that  failed  to  meet  fort- 
une. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  83 

V. 

When  the  sun  had  gone  down  we  took  long 
walks  all  over  the  island.  We  traversed  it  in 
every  direction.  We  went  into  the  town,  where 
we  bought  bread  and  the  vegetables  which  were 
wanting  in  Andrea's  garden.  Sometimes  we 
brought  back  with  us  a  little  tobacco — the  sailor's 
opium,  that  animates  him  on  the  water  and  con- 
soles him  on  land.  We  returned  when  night 
had  fallen,  our  pockets  and  hands  full  of  our 
modest  offerings.  In  the  evening  the  whole 

o  o 

family  would  assemble  on  the  roof,  which  in 
Naples  is  called  the  "  astrico,"  in  order  to  pass 
away  the  hours  before  bed-time.  There  is  noth- 
ing so  picturesque  in  all  the  beautiful  nights 
of  this  climate  as  the  scene  of  the  astrico  in  the 
moonlight. 

In  the  country,  the  low,  square  house  looks 
like  an  antique  pedestal,  supporting  living  groups 
and  animated  statues.  All  the  inhabitants  of 
the  house  ascend  to  the  roof  and  move  about  or 


GRAZIELLA  : 


sit  down  in  different  positions;  the  rays  of  the 
moon  or  the  light  of  the  lamp  brings  out  the 
various  profiles  and  stamp?  them  upon  the  blue 
surface  of  the  firmament.  One  sees  the  old 
mother  sewing;  the  father  smoking  his  earthen 
pipe  with  its  reed  stem;  the  young  boys  leaning 
on  their  elbows  over  the  edge  and  singing  in 
long,  dragging  notes  the  peculiar  airs  of  the 
sailors  and  rustics,  the  prolonged  sound  of  which 
vibrates  like  the  lament  of  a  bark  tortured  by 
the  waves,  or  the  sharp  hum  cf  the  grasshopper 
in  the  sun;  the  young  girls  with  their  short 
dresses,  their  bare  feet,  tiieir  green  and  open 
sacks  laced  with  silken  or  golden  thread,  and 
their  long  black  hair  falling  over  their  shoulders 
and  covered  with  a  handkerchief  which  they 
fasten  about  their  necks  in  great  bow-knots,  in 
order  to  protect  their  hair  from  the  dust. 

These  girls  dance  on  the  roofs  alone  cr  in 
pairs;  one  holds  a  guitar  and  the  other  raises 
above  her  head  the  tambourine  with  its  miniature 
cvmbals.  These  two  instruments,  —  the  one  soft 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  85 

and  plaintive,  the  other  loud  and  one-toned  — 
harmonize  wonderfully  well  in  giving  an  artless 
expression  to  the  two  alternating  refrains  of  the 
human  heart — joy  and  sorrow.  They  may  be 
heard  during  the  summer  nights  from  nearly  every 
roof  on  the  islands,  or  in  the  country  surrounding 
Naples,  and  even  on  the  boats.  This  aerial  con- 
cert, that  reaches  the  ear  from  every  side,  from 
the  sea  to  the  mountains,  sounds  like  the  buzzing 
of  a  new  insect  born  of  the  heat  and  humming 
under  the  beautiful  sky  above.  This  poor  insect 
is  no  other  than  man,  who,  for  a  few  days,  cele- 
brates in  song  his  youth  and  love  before  God,  and 
then  is  hushed  forever.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  hear  these  expanding  tones  from  the  astrico 
without  stopping  to  listen  further,  and,  as  I 
listened,  to  feel  my  pent-up  heart  ready  to  burst 
from  either  an  inward  joy  or  a  sadness  which  I 
could  not  control. 

VI. 

Such  were   the   attitudes,  the   music   and  the 
voices  on  the  terrace  of  Andrea's  roof.     Grazi- 


86  GRAZ1ELLA: 


ella  played  the  guitar,  and  Beppino,  making  his 
childish  fingers  beat  time  on  the  tambourine  that 
not  many  years  before  had  served  to  lull  him 
to  sleep  in  his  cradle,  accompanied  his  sister. 
Although  the  instruments  were  gay  ones,  and 
the  actions  of  the  players  those  of  joy,  the  melo- 
dies themselves  were  sad.  The  tones,  delicate 
and  rare,  went  to  the  heart  and  there  touched 
the  sleeping  chords.  Such  is  music  everywhere 
when  it  is  not  a  senseless  play  upon  the  ear,  but 
the  harmonious  wail  of  passions  which  come 
from  the  soul  through  the  voice.  Every  accent 
is  a  sigh,  and  every  note  brings  a  tear  with  its 
sound.  It  is  impossible  to  strike  hard  upon  the 
heart  without  bringing  out  tears,  so  full  of  sad- 
ness is  human  nature  at  the  core,  and  so  easily 
does  that  which  affects  it  force  the  dregs  to  our 
lips  and  the  mist  to  our  eyes. 

VII. 

Even    when    the    young    girl,   at    our   urgent 
request,  modestly  arose  to  dance  the  larcnUUa  to 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  87 

the  sound  of  the  tambourine,  played  by  her 
brother,  and  when,  carried  away  by  the  whirling 
motion  of  this  national  dance,  she  waltzed  about, 
holding  her  arms  up  gracefully,  imitating  with 
her  fingers  the  clacking  of  the  castanets,  her 
quick  steps  sounding  like  the  pattering  of  rain 
on  the  terrace;  yes,  even  then,  there  was  in  her 
bearing,  in  her  attitudes,  in  the  very  frenzy  of 
this  delirium  of  action,  something  sad  and  serious, 
as  if  all  joy  were  nothing  more  than  a  momentary 
oblivion,  and  as  if  it  were  necessary  that  youth 
and  beauty  should  be  lost  in  infatuation  and 
drunk  with  motion  in  order  to  attain  the  light  of 
happiness. 

VIII. 

More  often  we  would  hold  serious  conversa- 
tions with  our  friends.  We  would  induce  them 
to  tell  us  all  about  their  former  life,  the  tradi- 
tions and  recollections  of  their  family.  Each 
family  has  its  history  and  even  its  romance  fol 
one  who  knows  how  to  give  it  form  and  expres- 


GRAZIELLA  : 


sion.     This  one  had  had  its  nobility,  its  fortune, 
and  its  influence  in  the  past. 

Andrea's  grandfather  was  a  Greek  merchant 
living  on  the  island  of  Egina.  Persecuted  on 
account  of  his  religion  by  the  Pacha  of  Athens, 
he  had  one  night  embarked  his  wife,  sons,  daugh- 
ters and  fortune  in  one  of  the  ships  which  he 
owned  in  commerce.  He  took  refuge  in  Procida, 
whose  inhabitants  were  also  Greeks,  and 
some  of  whom  he  had  known  in  business  rela- 
tions. Here  he  purchased  a  large  property,  of 
which  the  only  remnant  was  the  little  farm  where 
we  were  staying,  and  the  family  name  engraved 
upon  some  tomb-stones  in  the  village  church- 
yard. His  daughters  had  died  in  the  convent  of 
the  island,  where  they  had  taken  the  veil.  His 
sons  had  lost  his  entire  fortune  in  storms  at  sea, 
which  had  shipwrecked  their  vessels.  The  family 
had  fallen  into  decay.  It  had  gone  so  far  that 
the  aristocratic  and  high-sounding  Grecian  name 
was  changed  for  the  obscure  one  by  which  the 
fisherman  of  Procida  was  then  known. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  89 

"  When  a  house  falls,''  said  Andrea  to  us,  "  men 
demolish  it  even  to  the  last  stone.  Of  all  that 
my  ancestors  possessed  under  heaven,  there  is 
only  left  to  me  my  two  oars,  the  boat  you  have 
restored  to  me,  this  cabin,  the  garden  that  does 
not  yield  a  support  to  my  family,  and  the  grace 
of  God." 

IX. 

The  grandmother  and  daughter  then  asked  us 
to  talk  of  ourselves ;  tell  them  who  we  were ; 
where  we  came  from,  in  what  country  we  were 
born,  and  what  our  parents  did  for  a  living; 
whether,  indeed,  we  had  a  father,  mother,  broth- 
ers, sisters,  a  house,  fig-trees  and  a  vine-yard; 
why  we  had  left  all  these  things  so  young  to 
come  and  row  upon  the  sea,  to  read,  to  write,  to 
dream  during  the  day  and  sleep  at  night  upon 
the  ground  of  the  Gulf  of  Naples.  We  had  told 
our  story  in  vain  ;  they  could  not  be  made  to 
understand  that  it  was  only  to  look  at  the  heavens 
and  the  sea,  to  breathe  out  our  soul  in  the  sun~ 
light,  to  gratify  the  longing  of  our  youth,  to 


90  CRAZIELLA 


gather  impressions,  sentiments,  ideas  that  we 
might  afterwards  put  in  verses,  like  those  which 
they  saw  in  our  books,  or  like  those  that  the 
iinprovisatori  of  Naples  recited  of  a  Sunday 
evening  to  the  sailors  on  the  quay  or  at  Mar- 
gellina. 

"You  are  making  fun  of  me,"  said  Graziella, 
as  she  burst  out  into  laughter.  "  You  poets .' 
Why,  your  hair  does  not  stand  on  end,  nor  are 
your  eyes  haggard,  like  those  of  the  men  whom 
they  call  poets  at  '  la  marine.'  You  poets  !  Why, 
you  do  not  even  know  how  to  strike  a  single 
note  on  the  guitar.  With  what,  pray,  will  you 
accompany  the  songs  that  you  compose?" 

Then  she  shook  her  head  at  us,  and  made 
pretty  faces  with  her  lips,  and  got  half  vexed, 
because  we  would  not  tell  her  the  truth. 

X. 

Once  in  a  while  a  dark  suspicion  would  enter 
Graziella's  mind,  and  she  would  look  at  us  with 
doubt  or  a  shade  of  fear  reflected  in  her  eyes. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  91 

But  this  did  not  last  long,  for  we  could  hear  her 
say  softly  to  her  grandmother  : 

"  No,  it  is  not  possible.  They  are  not  fu- 
gitives from  their  country,  driven  away  for  bad 
deeds.  They  are  too  young  and  too  good  to  be 
familiar  with  evil." 

Then  we  amused  ourselves  by  reciting  to  her 
dark  deeds  of  blood,  of  which  we  declared  our- 
selves to  be  the  perpetrators.  The  contrast  of 
our  smooth,  calm  foreheads,  our  quiet,  undis- 
turbed eyes,  our  smiling  lips  and  our  open 
hearts,  with  these  imaginary  crimes,  made  her 
and  her  brother  laugh  and  soon  dissipated  all 
thoughts  of  distrust. 

XI. 

Graxiella  often  questioned  us  about  the  con- 
tents of  the  books  from  which  we  read  every 
day.  She  thought  that  they  contained  prayers; 
for  she  had  never  seen  books  except  at  church 
in  the  hands  of  the  pious  who  knew  how  to  read 
and  could  follow  the  holy  words  of  the  priest. 


92  GRAZIELLA  : 


She  thought  us  very  pious  since  \vc  spent  whole 
days  in  murmuring  over  these  mysterious  words; 
only  she  was  surprised  that  we  did  not  become 
priests  or  monks  in  some  seminary  of  Naples  or 
in  one  of  the  monasteries  of  the  islands.  In 
order  to  enlighten  her,  we  tried  on  two  or  three 
occasions  to  read  to  her,  by  translating  into  the 
homely  language  of  the  country  as  we  went 
along,  some  passages  from  Foscolo  and  some 
beautiful  fragments  from  our  Tacitus.  We 
believed  that  these  patriotic  sighs  of  the 
exiled  Italian  and  the  grand  tragedies  of  im- 
perial Rome  would  make  a  strong  impression 
upon  our  simple  hearers ;  for  the  populace 
possess  a  love  of  country  in  their  instincts, 
a  heroism  in  their  sentiment,  and  something 
dramatic  in  their  glance.  That  which  they 
retain  above  all  is  the  recollection  of  great 
disasters  and  heroic  deaths.  But  we  soon  per- 
ceived that  the  eloquence  and  the  situations 
which  exercised  so  potent  an  influence  over  us 
had  no  effect  on  these  simple  souls.  The  senti- 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  93 

ment  of  political  liberty — the  ambition  of  men  of 
leisure — does  not  descend  to  the  level  of  the 
masses. 

These  poor  fishermen  could  not  see  why  Ortis 
should  be  driven  to  despair  and  kill  himself 
when  he  was  enjoying  all  the  luxuries  of  life : 
roaming  about  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  gaze  at 
the  sun,  to  love  his  sweetheart,  and  to  pray  to 
God  on  the  green  banks  of  the  Brenta. 

"Why  torment  himself,"  they  would  say, 
"with  ideas  that  do  not  reach  the  heart?  What 
matters  it  to  him  whether  the  Austrians  or  the 
French  rule  at  Milan?  He  is  a  fool  to  make 
himself  so  much  trouble,  and  about  such  things." 

And  they  would  listen  no  further. 

XII. 

They  were  still  less  inclined  to  listen  to  the 
works  of  Tacitus.  An  empire  or  a  republic ; 
men  who  cut  each  other's  throats,  some  that 
they  might  rule  and  others  that  they  might  not 
live  to  see  themselves  slaves ;  crime  for  a. 


94  GKAZIF.LLA  : 


throne,  virtue  for  glory,  death  for  posterity; — all 
fell  coldly  upon  these  people.  The  storms  of 
history  burst  too  high  above  their  heads  for 
them  to  be  affected  by  their  raging.  To  them  it 
was  like  the  thunder  that  rolls  beyond  the 
mountains,  which  they  did  not  notice,  because 
it  did  not  touch  the  peaks,  much  less  disturb 
the  fisherman's  sail  or  the  farmer's  house. 

Tacitus  is  only  popular  among  politicians  and 
philosophers.  He  is  the  Plato  of  History.  His 
nature  is  too  refined  and  sensitive  for  the  vulgar 
mind.  To  comprehend  it  the  reader  must  have 
lived  among  the  tumults  of  the  public  square 
and  the  intrigues  of  the  palace.  Take  away 
liberty,  ambition,  and  glory  from  these  scenes; 
and  what  is  left  ?  These  are  the  three  great 
actors  in  his  dramas.  But  these  three  passions 
are  unknown  to  the  masses  because  they  are 
passions  of  the  soul,  and  the  masses  feel  only 
the  passions  of  the  heart.  We  remarked  this 
from  the  coldness  and  surprise  that  these  frag- 
ments spread  about  us. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  95 

We  concluded  one  evening  that  we  would 
read  to  them  from  "  Paul  and  Virginia."  I 
undertook  the  task  of  translating  as  I  read,  for 
I  had  pored  over  the  book  so  much  that  I  knew 
it  nearly  by  heart;  besides,  having  familiarized 
myself  with  the  Italian  language  during  my 
more  extended  stay  in  the  country,  I  found  the 
expressions  without  any  difficulty,  and  they 
rolled  from  my  lips  like  my  mother  tongue. 
Hardly  had  this  reading  begun  when  a  change 
came  over  the  faces  of  our  little  audience,  indif- 
ference being  replaced  by  an  expression  of  inter- 
est and  attention  —  a  certain  indication  of  the 
emotion  of  the  heart.  We  had  at  last  touched 
the  chord  that  vibrates  the  same  in  the  souls  of 
all  men,  of  all  times,  and  of  all  conditions  —  the 
sympathetic  chord,  the  universal  chord,  the 
chord  whose  touch  resounds  the  eternal  truth  of 
art :  Nature,  the  love  of  God. 
XIII. 

I   had  only  read  a  few  pages   before   the  old 
folks,  the  young  girl  and  the  child  had  changed 


f)6  GRAZIELLA  : 

their  positions.  The  fisherman,  his  elbow  upon 
his  knee  and  his  ear  inclined  toward  me,  had  for- 
gotten to  inhale  the  smoke  of  his  pipe.  The  old 
grandmother  sitting  opposite  to  me,  held  her 
two  hands  folded  under  her  chin,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  poor  women  who  listen  to  the  word 
of  God  as  they  are  crouched  upon  the  hard  floor 
of  the  church.  Beppo  had  come  down  from  the 
terrace  wall  where  he  had  been  sitting  a  short 
time  before,  and  had  placed  his  guitar  no'se- 
lessly  on  the  floor.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
strings,  that  the  wind  might  not  agitate  them  as 
it  blew  over.  Gra/.iella,  who  generally  stood  at 
some  distance,  involuntarily  drew  nearer  to  me, 
as  if  she  had  been  attracted  by  some  invisible 
magnet  concealed  in  the  book. 

Leaning  against  the  terrace  wall,  at  the  foot 
of  which  I  had  stretched  myself,  she  came  nearer 
and  nearer  to  me,  supporting  her  whole  body 
with  her  left  hand  upon  the  ground,  in  the  atti- 
tude of  the  Wounded  Gladiator.  ?he  looked  with 
great  open  eyes  now  at  the  book ;  now  at  my 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  97 

lips  whence  came  the  words  that  interested  her; 
now  at  the  space  between  the  book  and  my  lips, 
as  if  searching  for  the  invisible  spirit  that  com- 
municated them.  I  heard  her  irregular  breath- 
ing, hushed  or  hurried  in  response  to  the  devel- 
opments of  the  drama,  like  the  tired  breathing 
of  some  one  clambering  up  a  mountain's  side 
and  stopping  from  time  to  time  for  rest.  Before 
I  had  arrived  at  the  middle  of  the  story  the  poor 
child  had  forgotten  her  almost  wild  reserve  with 
me.  I  felt  her  warm  breath  on  my  hands.  Her 
hair  touched  my  forehead.  Two  or  three  burn- 
ing tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks  and  blotted 
the  page  close  to  my  fingers. 

XIV. 

With  the  exception  of  the  low  and  monoto- 
nous sound  of  my  voice  which  translated  liter- 
ally to  the  fisherman's  family  this  poem  of  the 
heart,  and  of  the  heavy,  distant,  dismal  sound 
of  the  waves  beating  up  against  the  shore  under 
our  feet,  there  was  not  a  noise  to  be  heard. 
7 


9  8  GRAZIEU.A  : 


And  this  moaning  of  the  sea  was  in  keeping 
with  the  reading.  It  was  like  the  presentient 
catastrophe  of  the  story,  that  came  rumbling 
through  the  air  from  the  beginning  and  during 
the  course  of  the  recital.  The  more  the  story 
developed,  the  more  attractive  it  seemed  to  be 
to  our  simple-minded  listeners.  When  I  hesi- 
tated, perhaps  to  find  the  Italian  synonym  for 
the  French  word,  Graziella,  who  for  some  time 
had  been  protecting  the  lamp  from  the  wind 
with  her  apron,  would  hold  it  down  so  near  to 
the  book,  in  her  impatience,  that  it  would  almost 
burn  the  leaves,  as  if  she  thought  that  the  light 
of  the  flame  would  bring  intellectual  perception 
into  my  eyes,  and  cause  the  words  to  spring 
more  lightly  to  my  lips.  Smiling,  I  put  away 
the  lamp  softly  with  my  hand  without  taking  my 
eyes  from  the  book,  and  I  felt  my  fingers  warm 
with  her  tears. 

XV. 

When  I  came  to  that   part  of  the  book  where 
Virginia,  recalled  to  France  bv  her  aunt,  feels  as 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  99 

though  her  very  being  was  rent  asunder,  and 
forces  herself  to  console  Paul  under  the  banana 
trees,  speaking  to  him  of  a  return,  and  pointing 
out  the  sea  that  is  to  carry  her  away,  I  closed 
the  volume  and  postponed  further  reading  till 
the  morrow. 

This  was  a  blow  at  the  very  hearts  of  the  poor 
people.  Graziella  fell  on  her  knees  before  me, 
then  before  my  friend,  to  beg  of  us  to  finish  the 
story.  Hut  she  pleaded  in  vain.  We  wished  to 
prolong  the  interest  for  her,  and  the  delight  in 
watching  it  for  ourselves.  Then  she  snatched 
the  book  from  my  hands  ;  she  opened  it  as  if 
she  would,  by  the  very  force  of  her  will,  deci- 
pher the  characters  before  her.  She  talked  to 
it ;  she  kissed  it ;  she  returned  it  with  a  respect- 
ful air  to  its  place  on  my  knees,  while  she 
joined  her  hands  and  looked  up  in  my  face 
pitifully. 

Her  features,  usually  so  serene  and  smiling, 
but  a  little  severe  in  their  impassibility,  had 
suddenly  taken  from  the  passion  and  sympa- 


GRAZIF.LLA  : 


thetic  tenderness  of  the  recital  something  of  the 
animation,  the  confusion  and  the  pathos  of  the 
story.  It  seemed  as  though  a  sudden  revolution 
had  metamorphosed  this  beautiful  piece  of  marble 
into  humanity  and  tears.  The  young  girl  felt 
her  soul,  that  had  slept  until  this  time,  revealing 
itself  to  her  in  the  soul  of  Virginia.  She  seemed 
to  have  grown  six  years  older  in  this  one  half- 
hour.  The  stormy  shades  of  passion  had 
marbled  her  forehead,  cheeks,  and  the  bluish 
white  of  her  eyes.  She  was  like  a  calm  and 
placid  sheet  of  water,  in  which  the  sun,  the 
shade  and  the  wind  come  to  wrestle  for  possession 
unexpectedly  and  for  the  first  time.  We  could 
scarcely  take  our  eyes  from  her  as  she  sat  in  this 
position.  She,  who,  up  to  this  time,  had  only 
afforded  us  pastime,  now  inspired  us  with  respect. 
But  it  was  still  in  vain  that  she  conjured  us  to 
continue;  we  did  not  wish  to  use  all  our  in- 
fluence over  her  at  one  time,  and  the  sight  of 
those  dear  tears  of  hers  was  too  pleasant  a  one 
for  us  to  exhaust  the  source  in  a  single  day.  She 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          101 

retired  at  last  poutingly,  and  put  out  her  light  in 
anger. 

XVI. 

The  next  morning  when  I  found  her  under  the 
arbor  and  wished  to  talk  with  her,  she  turned 
away,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  hide  her  tears,  and 
refused  to  answer  me.  I  could  see  by  the  dark 
border  that  encircled  her  eyes,  by  the  dull,  dead 
pallor  of  her  cheeks,  and  by  the  slight  and  grace- 
ful quivering  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  that 
she  had  not  slept  and  that  her  heart  was  still 
heavy  with  the  imaginary  sorrows  of  the  evening 
before.  Wonderful  power  of  a  book,  that  can 
work  upon  the  feelings  of  an  untutored  child  and 
an  ignorant  family  with  all  the  force  of  a  reality, 
and  the  reading  of  which  is  an  event  in  the  life 
of  the  heart ! 

The  reason  of  it  is  that,  just  as  I  translated 
the  poem,  so  the  poem  translated  nature,  and  that 
the  events,  so  simple  in  themselves, —  the  cradle 
of  these  two  children  at  the  feet  of  two  poor 
mothers,  their  innocent  loves,  their  cruel  sep- 


aration,  the  return  thwarted  by  death,  the  wreck, 
and  the  two  graves  under  the  banana-trees  that 
closed  over  one  heart, —  are  things  which  all  the 
world  can  feel  and  understand,  from  the  palace 
to  the  fisherman's  cabin.  Poets  search  after 
genius  afar  off,  when  it  is  to  be  found  in  the 
heart,  and  when  a  few  simple  chords,  piously  and 
happily  touched  on  the  instrument  attuned  by 
the  Deity  itself,  are  enough  to  make  a  whole 
century  weep,  to  become  as  popular  as  love,  as 
sympathetic  as  sentiment.  The  sublime  tires, 
the  beautiful  may  deceive,  the  pathetic  alone  is 
infallible  in  art.  He  who  knows  how  to  touch 
the  heart  knows  all.  There  is  more  true  genius 
in  one  tear  than  in  all  the  museums  and  all  the 
libraries  of  the  universe.  Man  is  like  a  tree 
which  is  shaken  that  its  fruit  may  drop  to  the 
ground:  you  can  never  move  the  man  that  the 

tears  do  not  fall. 

XVII. 

All  that   day   the  house   seemed  as  sad  as  if 
some  sorrowful    event  had   occurred  within  the 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          103 

humble  family  circle.  The  several  members 
assembled  at  the  table,  but  almost  without  speak- 
ing to  each  other;  they  separated  and  met  again 
without  a  smile.  We  could  see  that  Graziella 
had  no  heart  in  her  work  in  the  garden  or  on  the 
roof.  She  looked  up  often  to  see  if  the  sun  were 
not  setting,  and  of  this  whole  day  it  was  apparent 
mat  she  only  awaited  the  evening. 

When  the  evening  had  come,  and  we  had 
taken  our  customary  places  upon  the  astrico,  I 
reopened  the  book  and  finished  the  reading  amid 
tears  and  sobs.  Father,  mother,  children,  my 
friend,  myself, —  all  took  part  in  the  general 
emotion.  The  sad  and  serious  sound  of  my 
voice  harmonized,  without  my  knowing  it,  with 
the  sadness  of  the  story  and  the  seriousness  of 
the  words.  They  seemed,  at  the  end  of  the 
reading,  to  come  from  a  distance  and  fall  from 
above  into  the  soul,  with  the  hollow  sound  of  an 
empty  bosom  in  which  the  heart  beats  no  longer, 
and  which  partakes  of  the  things  of  this  earth 
only  in  sorrow,  religion  or  reminiscence. 


GKAZIELLA  : 


XVIII. 

It  was  simply  impossible  for  us  to  go  through 
the  empty  forms  of  conversation  after  this  read- 
ing. Graziella  remained  quiet  and  without  a 
movement  in  the  attitude  in  which  she  had  lis- 
tened, as  though  she  were  listening  still.  Silence 
— the  applause  of  real  and  durable  impressions — 
was  broken  by  no  one;  each  respected  in  the 
other  the  thoughts  he  felt  to  be  the  same  as  his 
own.  The  lamp,  gradually  burning  down,  at  last 
went  out  imperceptibly,  and  no  one  raised  a 
hand  to  relight  it.  The  family  arose  and  retired 
without  noise.  My  friend  and  I  were  left  alone, 
astonished  at  the  omnipotence  of  truth,  sim- 
plicity and  sentiment  over  all  men,  all  ages  and 
all  countries. 

Perhaps  another  emotion  was  stirring  at  the 
bottom  of  our  hearts.  The  ravishing  image  of 
Graziella,  transfigured  by  her  tears,  introduced 
to  sorrow  by  love,  was  associated  in  our  dreams 
with  the  heavenly  creation  of  Virginia.  These 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          105 

two  names  and  these  two  young  girls,  all  con- 
fused in  wandering  visions,  charmed  and  sad- 
dened our  restless  sleep  till  morning. 

During  the  evening  of  that  day  and  the  two 
following  evenings  we  had  to  re-read  the  same 
story  twice  to  the  young  girl.  We  would  have 
read  it  a  hundred  times,  if  she  had  not  tired  of 
asking  for  it.  It  is  the  characteristic  of  the 
Southern  imagination,  profound  and  dreamy  as 
it  is,  that  it  seeks  no  change  in  poetry  or  in 
music.  For  these  people,  music  and  poetry  are 
only  themes  which  they  elaborate  into  their  own 
feelings.  They  feed  upon  the  same  verses  and 
the  same  airs  for  centuries  and  never  tire  of 
them.  Nature  itself — the  sublimity  of  music 
and  poetry  —  what  has  she  but  two  or  three 
words  and  two  or  three  notes,  always  the  same, 
with  which  she  saddens  or  fascinates  men  from 
the  very  first  sigh  to  the  very  last  ? 
XIX. 

At  the  rising  of  the  sun  on  the  ninth  day  of 
our  stay,  the  wind,  which  was  equinoctial,  began 


106  GRAZIEI.LA: 


to  fall,  and  in  a  very  few  hours  the  sea  became 
again  the  sea  of  Summer.  The  very  mountains 
of  the  coast  of  Naples,  as  well  as  the  waters  and 
the  sky,  seemed  to  float  in  a  clearer  and  bluer 
fluid  than  during  the  warmest  weather,  as  if  the 
sea,  the  firmament  and  the  mountains  had 
already  felt  the  first  chill  of  Winter,  which  crys- 
talizes  the  air  and  makes  it  sparkle  like  the 
frozen  water  of  the  glaciers.  The  fig-leaves  had 
browned,  the  vine-leaves  were  yellow,  and  they 
began  to  fall  and  fly  around  the  yard.  The 
grapes  had  been  gathered.  The  figs,  dried  in 
the  sunlight  on  the  astrico,  were  laid  in  layers  in 
great  baskets,  plaited  from  sea-weeds  by  the  wo- 
men. The  boat  was  all  ready  to  venture  out 
into  the  sea  and  the  old  fisherman  to  take  his 
family  to  Margellina. 

The  house  and  roof  were  thoroughly  swept 
and  scoured.  The  spring  was  covered  with  a 
large  stone,  that  the  dry  leaves  and  the  winter 
rains  might  not  spoil  the  purity  of  its  waters. 
The  oil  was  taken  out  of  the  little  well  in  the 


A    STORY   OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  107 

rock,  then  put  into  jars  and  carried  down  to  the 
shore  by  the  children,  by  fixing  sticks  into  the 
handles.  Mattresses  and  the  bed-covering  were 
done  up  into  large  packages  and  bound  with 
cords.  The  lamp  under  the  image  of  the  fire- 
side saint  was  lighted  for  the  last  time.  There 
was  a  final  prayer  before  the  Madonna,  in  which 
the  house,  the  fig-trees  and  the  vineyard  were 
confided  to  her  care  for  several  months.  Then 
the  door  was  closed.  The  key  was  hidden  under 
the  edge  of  a  rock  covered  with  ivy,  that  the  fish- 
erman might  know  where  to  find  it,  if  he  returned 
during  the  Winter  to  visit  the  house.  Afterwards 
we  went  to  the  shore,  helping  the  poor  family  to 
carry  and  stow  away  the  oil,  the  bread  and  fruits. 


o 


PART     THIRD. 

I. 

UR  return  to  Naples  by  the  Gulf  of  Bai'a  and 
along  the  crags  and  declivities  of  Posilippo, 
was  a  perfect  festival  for  the  young  girl,  for  the 
children,  for  my  friend  and  myself,  and  a  triumph 
for  old  Andrea.  We  went  into  Margellina  at 
nightfall  and  singing.  The  old  friends  and  neigh- 
bors of  the  fisherman  did  not  tire  of  admiring 
his  new  boat.  They  helped  unload  it  and  pull 
it  up  on  the  beach.  As  we  had  forbidden  him  to 
say  to  whom  he  owed  it,  they  paid  little  attention 
to  us. 

After  having  secured  the  boat  and  carried 
the  baskets  of  raisins  and  figs  above  Andrea's 
cellar  and  near  the  threshold  of  the  three  low 
rooms  where  the  old  grandmother,  the  children 


GRAZIELLA  : 


and  Graziella  lived,  we  retired  unobserved.  Not 
without  an  oppresnion  of  the  heart,  \ve  traversed 
the  noisy  tumult  of  the  populous  streets  of 
Naples  and  entered  our  lodgings. 

II. 

We  proposed,  after  a  few  day's  rest  in  Naples 
to  resume  the  same  life  with  the  fisherman, 
whenever  the  sea  would  permit  it.  We  had  be- 
come so  accustomed  to  simplicity  in  our  dress 
and  to  being  in  the  uncovered  boat  during  the 
last  three  months,  that  the  bed,  the  furniture  in 
our  rooms  and  the  conventional  dress  of  the 
town  seemed  to  us  an  irksome  and  fastidious 
luxury.  But  we  hoped  that  we  had  resumed 
them  for  a  few  days  only.  In  the  morning,  how- 
ever, we  went  to  the  post-office  to  get  our  back 
letters  and  my  friend  found  one  from  his  mother. 
She  recalled  her  son  to  France,  at  once,  to  assist 
at  his  sister's  wedding.  His  brother-in-law  was 
to  come  as  far  as  Rome  to  meet  him.  From  the 
date  of  the  letter,  it  was  probable  that  he  had 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.  Ill 

already  arrived  there.      There  was   no   time   to 
lose ;  he  must  set  out. 

I,  too,  ought  to  have  gone  with  him.  I  do 
not  know  what  charm  of  isolation  and  adventure 
kept  me.  The  mariner's  life,  the  fisherman's 
cabin,  the  image  of  Graziella,  all  had  something 
to  do  with  it,  but  every  thing  was  confused. 
The  unrestrained  freedom,  a  certain  pride  in 
being  my  own  master  three  hundred  leagues 
from  home,  a  passion  for  the  mysterious  and  for 
the  undiscovered — the  ethereal  perspective  of 
young  imaginations  — counted  for  more. 

My  friend  and  I  parted  in  manly  tenderness. 
He  promised  that  he  would  rejoin  me  just  as 
soon  as  he  had  done  his  duty  as  a  son  and  a 
brother.  He  loaned  me  fifty  louis  to  fill  the 
vacuum  that  six  months  had  made  in  my  purse, 
and  he  departed. 

III. 

This  departure,  the  absence  of  this  friend  who 
was  to  me  what  an  elder  brother  is  to  a  mere 
child,  left  me  in  a  loneliness  that  seemed  to 


GRA7JELLA  : 


increase  with  every  hour,  and  in  winch  I  felt 
myself  sinking  as  into  an  abyss.  All  my 
thoughts,  all  my  sensations,  all  my  words,  which 
formerly  vanished  as  soon  as  communicated  to 
him,  now  remained  in  my  soul,  there  mouldered, 
saddened,  and  fell  back  upon  my  heart  with  a 
weight  that  I  could  not  again  throw  off.  The 

o  o 

turmoil  in  which  nothing  interested  me ;  the 
crowd  in  which  I  was  known  to  no  cne;  the 
little  room  in  which  nothing  congenial  met  my 
glance;  the  inn-life  in  which  you  are  constantly 
elbowing  strangers,  in  which  you  sit  at  a  silent 
table,  next  to  ever-changing  and  indifferent 
faces;  the  books  that  you  have  read  a  hundred 
times  and  whose  immovable  characters  always 
reproduce  the  same  ideas  in  the  same  phrases 
and  in  the  same  places ;  all  this,  which  had 
seemed  so  delightful  to  me  in  Rome  and  in 
Naples  before  our  excursions  and  nomadic  and 
erratic  life  of  the  Summer,  now  seemed  to  me  a 
slow  death.  My  heart  was  drowned  in  melan- 
choly. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          113 

For  the  first  few  days  I  felt  this  sadness  I 
rambled  through  the  streets,  went  from  one 
theater  to  another,  and  from  one  book  to  an- 
other, without  being  able  to  throw  it  off.  At 
last  I  fell  ill  of  the  disease  called  homesickness. 
My  head  became  heavy  and  my  limbs  refused  to 
carry  me.  I  was  pale  and  haggard.  I  no 
longer  ate.  Silence  saddened  me ;  noise  pained 
me.  I  passed  the  nights  without  sleep  and  lay 
upon  my  bed  during  the  day,  having  neither  the 
desire  nor  the  strength  to  get  up.  The  old 
relative  of  my  mother's,  the  only  one  who  could 
have  taken  any  interest  in  me,  had  gone  to 
spend  some  months  about  thirty  leagues  from 
Naples  in  Abruzzo  for  the  purpose  of  establish- 
ing a  factory  there. 

I  sent  for  a  physician.  He  came,  looked  at 
me,  felt  my  pulse  and  told  me  I  was  not  sick. 
The  truth  is  that  I  had  no  disease  for  which 
medicine  affords  a  remedy;  my  disease  was  one 
of  the  soul  and  of  the  imagination.  The 
physician  went  away,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  him. 


114  GRAZIELLA  : 

IV. 

Yet  I  was  so  sick  on  the  following  day  that  I 
began  to  think  of  some  one  whom  I  could  call 
in  for  help  and  pity  if  I  became  so  ill  as  not  to 
be  able  to  go  out.  The  poor  family  at  Margel- 
lina  naturally  came  into  my  mind,  for  I  was  still 
living  as  one  of  its  members  in  reminiscence.  I 
sent  a  child  who  served  me  to  seek  Andrea,  and  to 
say  to  him  that  the  younger  of  the  two  strangers 
was  sick,  and  wished  to  see  him. 

When  the  child  had  carried  his  message, 
Andrea  had  gone  to  sea  with  Beppino ;  the 
grandmother  was  on  the  quay  at  Chiaia,  occu- 
pied in  selling  her  fish.  Graziella  was  alone  in 
the  house  with  her  little  brothers.  She  barely 
took  the  time  to  confide  the  children  to  the  care 
of  one  of  the  neighbors  and  to  put  on  her  best 
dress,  and  then  followed  the  child,  who  showed 
her  the  street,  the  old  convent,  and  ascended 
the  stairway  before  her. 

I  heard  a  slight   knocking   at   my  door,  which 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          115 

opened  immediately  after,  as  if  pushed  by  some 
invisible  hand.  I  saw  Graziella.  When  she 
saw  me,  she  uttered  a  cry  of  pity,  and  sprang 
forward  toward  my  bed ;  then,  suddenly  stop- 
ping and  drawing  back,  she  joined  her  hands 
over  her  apron,  and  gracefully  inclined  her  head 
on  her  left  shoulder  in  an  attitude  of  sympathy. 

"  How  pale  he  is  '  "  she  said,  half  to  herself; 
"  how  great  a  change  these  few  days  have  made 
in  his  appearance!  And  where  is  the  other?" 
she  asked,  as  she  turned  to  find  the  usual  com- 
panion of  my  room. 

"  He  is  gone,"  I  said ;  "  and  I  am  alone  and 
unknown  in  Naples." 

"  Gone  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Gone  !  leaving 
you  alone  and  sick  ?  Did  he  not  love  you,  then  ? 
Ah!  If  I  had  been  in  his  place  I  would  not  have 
left  you  ;  and  yet -I  am  not  your  brother,  and, 
indeed,  have  known  you  only  since  the  first  day 
of  the  storm." 


ll  6  GRAZIELLA: 


V. 

I  explained  to  her  that  I  was  not  ill  when  my 
friend  left  me. 

"  But  how  is  it,"  she  asked  quickly,  in  a  tone 
that  was  half  tender  and  half  reproachful,  "  that 
you  did  not  think  you  had  other  friends  at  Mar- 
gellina?  Ah!  I  see,"  she  added,  as  she  looked 
down  sadly  at  her  sleeves  and  the  folds  of  her 
dress ;  "  it  is  because  we  are  poor  people,  and 
you  were  ashamed  to  have  us  come  into  this 
beautiful  house.  Never  mind,"  and  she  brushed 
away  the  tears,  which  had  been  falling  on  my 
forehead  ever  since  she  had  stood  by  me  ;  "  even 
if  we  had  been  scorned,  we  should  have  come 
all  the  same." 

"  Poor  Graziella,"  I  answered  with  a  smile ; 
"  God  grant  that  I  may  never  live  to  see  the  day 
when  I  shall  be  ashamed  of  those  who  love  me." 

VI. 

She  took  a  chair,  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  and  we  talked  a  while. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          117 


The  sound  of  her  voice ;  the  serenity  of  her 
eyes  ;  the  calm  and  trusting  freedom  of  her  bear- 
ing; the  innocence  of  her  face;  the  irregular 
and  plaintive  accent  peculiar  to  these  women  of 
the  islands,  which  recalls,  as  in  the  East,  the 
submissive  tone  of  the  slave  amid  the  very 
breathings  of  love  ;  the  recollection  of  the  delight- 
ful days  passed  with  her  in  the  cabin  and  the 
sunshine  ;  the  sun  of  Procida,  which  seemed  to 
shine  again  in  my  dreary  room  from  her  brow, 
form  and  feet ;  all  these  things,  as  I  looked  at 
her  face  and  listened  to  her  voice,  so  lifted  me 
from  my  languor  and  suffering,  that  I  thought 
myself  suddenly  cured.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I 
could  get  up  and  walk  as  soon  as  she  should 
leave  me.  Yet  I  felt  myself  so  well  for  her 
presence  that  I  prolonged  the  conversation  as 
much  as  possible.  I  detained  her  under  a  thou- 
sand pretexts,  from  fear  that  she  would  go  too 
soon  and  carry  off  with  her  the  happiness  she 
had  brought  me. 

She  waited  on  me   a  part  of  the  day,  without 


n8  GRAZIELLA  : 


fear,  without  affected  reserve,  without  false  mod- 
esty, as  a  sister  who  waits  on  a  brother,  never 
thinking  him  to  be  a  man.  She  went  out  and 
bought  me  some  oranges.  She  bit  into  the  peel 
of  one  of  them  witli  her  beautiful  white  teeth, 
that  she  might  squeeze  the  juice  into  my  glass  as 
she  pressed  it  between  her  fingers.  She  took 
from  her  neck  a  little  silver  medal,  hanging  to  a 
black  cord,  and  concealed  in  her  bosom.  This 
she  fastened  with  a  pin  to  my  white  bed-curtain. 
She  assured  me  that  I  would  soon  be  cured  by 
the  virtue  of  this  holy  image.  Then,  as  twilight 
began  to  appear,  she  left  me,  but  not  without 
returning  twenty  times  from  the  door  to  the  bed 
to  see  whether  I  did  not  wish  something  more, 
and  to  beg  me  to  pray  devoutly  to  the  image 
before  I  went  to  sleep. 

VII. 

Whether  it  was  the  virtue  of  the  image  and  the 
prayers  she  undoubtedly  addressed  to  it;  whether 
it  was  owing  to  the  soothing  influence  of  the  spirit 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          119 

of  gentleness  and  interest  that  I  had  in  Grazi- 
ella's  face,  or  to  the  delightful  diversion  that  her 
presence  and  conversation  had  brought  to  my 
weak  and  nervous  condition,  it  is  equally  certain 
that  she  had  no  sooner  left  the  room  than  I  fell 
into  a  sound  and  peaceful  sleep. 

On  awaking  the  next  morning,  and  seeing 
the  orange  peel  strewn  about  the  floor  of  my 
room,  Graziella's  chair  still  turned  toward  my 
bed,  as  if  she  had  but  just  left  it,  shortly  to  return, 
the  little  medal  attached  to  the  curtain  by  its 
black  silk  cord,  and  all  those  evidences  of  a 
woman's  care  and  attention,  of  which  I  had  been 
deprived  for  so  long  a  time,  it  seemed  to  me, 
while  I  was  yet  scarcely  awake,  that  my  mother 
or  one  of  my  sisters  had  been  in  my  room  the 
evening  before.  It  was  only  when  I  had  opened 
my  eyes  widely,  and  recalled  my  wandering 
senses,  that  Graziella's  face  appeared  to  me  as  I 
had  seen  it  the  evening  before. 

The  sun  was  so  bright,  rest  had  so  strength- 
ened my  limbs,  the  solitude  of  my  chamber 


GRAZIELLA  : 


weighed  so  heavily  on  my  heart,  the  longing  to 
listen  again  to  the  sound  of  a  well  known  voice 
urged  me  so  strongly,  that  I  got  up  at  once, 
feeble  and  trembling  as  I  still  was.  I  ate  the 
oranges  that  were  left,  went  down  into  the  street, 
called  a  corricolo  that  was  standing  on  the  corner, 
and,  as  if  by  instinct,  directed  the  driver  to  take 
me  to  the  Margellina  quarter. 

VIII. 

AVhen  I  had  arrived  in  front  of  Andrea's  little 
low  house,  I  ascended  the  stairway  that  led  up 
to  the  platform  above  the  basement,  and  upon 
which  the  rooms  occupied  by  the  family  opened. 
I  found  assembled  on  the  astrico  Gra/.iella,  her 
grandmother,  the  old  fisherman,  Beppino  and 
the  children.  As  I  met  them  they  were  on  the 
point  of  going  out,  dressed  in  their  best  clothes, 
to  make  me  a  visit.  Each  carried,  in  a  basket, 
in  a  handkerchief  or  in  the  hand,  some  present 
that  these  poor  people  thought  would  be  most 
acceptable  to  me  or  best  for  me  to  have.  One 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          12  r 

had  a  flask  of  the  golden  white  wine  of  Ischia, 
closed,  in  place  of  a  cork,  by  a  stopper  formed 
of  rosemary  and  aromatic  herbs  that  perfumed 
the  bottle ;  another  had  dry  figs ;  another  had 
medlars,  and  the  little  children  oranges.  The 
heart  of  Graziella  had  passed  over  to  all  the  rest 
of  the  family. 

IX. 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  came  from  them 
as  they  saw  me  appear  before  them,  still  pale 
and  weak,  but  erect  and  smiling.  In  her  joy, 
Graziella  let  the  oranges  which  she  held  in  her 
apron  fall  to  the  ground,  and,  clapping  her 
hands  together,  she  ran  toward  me. 

"  I  told  you,"  she  cried,  "  that  the  image 
would  cure  you  if  it  could  rest  but  one  night  on 
your  bed.  Did  I  deceive  you  ?  " 

I  took  the  medal  from  my  breast,  where  I 
had  placed  it  before  coming  out,  and  handed  it 
to  her. 

"  Kiss  it  first,"  she  said  to  me. 

I    did    kiss    it    and    perhaps    the    tips  of  the 


fingers  which  she  had  readied  out  to  take  it 
from  me. 

''  I  will  return  it  to  you  if  you  fall  sick  again," 
she  added,  as  she  put  the  cord  around  her  neck 
and  let  the  medal  glide  into  her  bosom  ;  "  it  will 
serve  for  two." 

We  sat  down  on  the  terrace  in  the  morning 
sunlight.  They  all  seemed  as  happy  as  if  they 
had  recovered  a  brother  or  a  child  who  had 
been  absent  on  a  long  voyage.  Time,  which  is 
essential  to  the  formation  of  intimacies  among 
the  higher  classes,  is  not  necessary  to  friendship 
among  the  lower  classes.  Hearts  are  opened  in 
confidence  and  joined  together  at  once,  for  there 
is  no  suspicion  of  interest  lurking  under  the 
feelings.  Eight  days  will  seal  a  closer  friend- 
ship among  the  people  of  nature  than  will  ten 
years  among  the  people  of  society.  This  family 
and  I  were  already  relatives. 

We  told  each  other  what  had  happened  of 
good  or  bad  since  we  had  parted.  Their  poor 
house  had  struck  a  vein  of  good  fortune.  The 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          123 

boat  was  blessed.  The  nets  were  lucky.  The 
fish  had  never  been  so  plenty.  The  grand- 
mother alone  was  not  equal  to  the  sale  of  the 
fish  to  the  people  who  passed  before  her  door  ; 
Beppino,  proud  and  strong,  was  as  good  as  a 
sailor  of  twenty  years,  although  he  was  no  more 
than  twelve.  Graziella  was  learning  a  trade  far 
above  the  humble  calling  of  the  family.  Her 
wages,  already  large  for  the  work  of  a  young 
girl,  and  increasing  constantly  with  her  ability, 
would  suffice  to  clothe  her  little  brothers  and  to 
accumulate  for  her  a  very  respectable  dowry, 
when  she  should  be  "  of  an  age  and  inclination 
for  love  making." 

Her  relatives  told  me  these  things.  She  was 
learning  the  art  of  working  coral.  The  manu- 
facture and  trade  in  coral  formed  at  that  time 
the  principal  revenue  of  the  industry  of  the 
towns  along  the  coast  of  Italy.  An  uncle  of 
Gra/.iella,  brother  to  the  mother  she  had  lost, 
was  the  superintendent  of  one  of  the  largest 
coral  factories  in  Naples.  Already  rich  for  his 


124  GRAZIELLA  .• 


station  in  life,  and  having  charge  of  a  large 
number  of  workmen  and  workwomen,  he  found 
their  services  insufficient  to  meet  the  demand 
that  came  from  all  parts  of  Europe  for  this  lux- 
ury. It  was  for  this  reason  that  he  had  thought 
of  his  niece,  and  a  few  days  before,  he  had  come 
to  enroll  her  name  among  his  workwomen.  Me 
had  brought  her  the  coral  and  the  tools,  and 
had  given  her  the  first  lessons  in  the  very  sim- 
ple art. 

The  other  women  worked  in  common  at  the 
factory,  but  Graziella,  owing  to  the  constant  and 
unavoidable  absence  of  her  grandmother  and 
grandfather,  was  the  only  guardian  of  the  child- 
ren, and  so  did  her  work  at  home.  Her  uncle, 
who  could  not  absent  himself  often  from  his 
business,  was  accustomed  to  send  to  the  young 
girl  his  eldest  son,  Graziella.' s  cousin  and  a 
young  man  of  about  twenty  years,  who  was 
quiet,  steady  and  reserved,  a  good  workman  but 
very  simple-minded,  ungainly  and  somewhat 
deformed  in  his  person.  Me  came  in  the  even- 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          125 

ing,  when  the  factory  had  been  closed,  to  exam- 
ine his  cousin's  work,  to  perfect  her  in  the 
proper  use  of  the  tools,  and  also  to  give  her  the 
first  lessons  in  reading,  writing  and  arithmetic. 

"  Let  us  hope,"  said  the  old  lady  to  me  softly 
while  Graziella  turned  her  head  aside,  "  that 
this  will  result  to  the  advantage  of  both  of  them, 
and  that  the  master  will  become  the  servant  of 
his  bride." 

I  saw  that  the  grandmother  had  a  good  deal 
of  pride  and  ambition  in  regard  to  her  daugh- 
ter's future.  But  Graziella  did  not  suspect  it. 

X. 

The  young  girl  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led 
me  into  her  room  that  I  might  admire  the  coral 
work  which  she  had  already  turned  and  polished. 
The  specimens  were  neatly  arranged  on  cotton 
in  little  pasteboard  boxes  on  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
She  wished  to  fashion  a  piece  in  my  presence. 
I  turned  the  wheel  of  her  machine  with  my  foot, 
opposite  her,  as  she  presented  the  red  coral- 


126  GRAZIELLA  : 


branch  to  the  circular  knife,  which  cut  into  it  with 
a  grating  sound.  Then  she  rounded  off  the  pieces 
by  holding  them  in  the  ends  of  her  fingers 
against  the  grind-stone. 

The  rose-colored  dust  covered  her  hands,  and, 
flying  into  her  face  from  time  to  time,  powdered 
her  lips  and  cheeks  as  with  a  light  paint,  that 
made  her  eyes  appear  all  the  bluer  and  more 
brilliant.  Then  she  laughingly  wiped  off  her 
face  and  shook  her  black  hair,  so  the  dust  covered 
me  in  turn. 

"  This  is  just  the  work  for  a  child  of  the  sea 
like  me,  isn't  it  ?  ''  she  asked.  "  We  owe  every- 
thing to  the  sea,  from  my  grandfather's  boat  and 
the  bread  we  eat  to  these  ear-rings  and  orna- 
ments, with  which  I  shall  perhaps  adorn  my- 
self some  day,  when  I  shall  have  polished  and 
fashioned  enough  for  those  who  are  richer  and 
handsomer  than  I  am." 

The  morning  passed  in  this  way  —  gossiping, 
laughing  and  working — \vithout  the  thought  ever 
entering  my  head  that  I  must  co  awav.  At  noon 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          J2J 

I  partook  of  the  family  meal.  The  bright  sun, 
the  fresh  air,  the  contentment  of  soul,  the  frugal 
meal, —  which  consisted  simply  of  bread,  a  piece 
of  fried  fish  and  some  preserved  fruits  from  the 
cellar, —  had  given  me  strength  and  appetite. 
After  dinner  I  assisted  the  old  man  in  mending 
the  meshes  of  a  net  he  had  stretched  out  upon 
the  astrico. 

Graziella,  whose  foot  we  heard  tramping  regu- 
larly upon  her  machine;  the  noise  of  her  grand- 
mother's spinning  wheel ;  and  the  voices  of  the 
children  who  were  playing  with  oranges  on  the 
doorstep,  formed  a  melodious  accompaniment  to 
our  work.  Graziella  came  out  from  time  to  time 
to  shake  her  hair  over  the  balcony,  when  we 
would  exchange  a  look,  a  friendly  word  or  a 
smile.  I  felt  that  I  was  happy,  without  knowing 
why, —  happy  to  the  very  soul.  I  could  have 
wished  to  be  one  of  the  aloe-plants  twining  about 
the  garden  fence,  or  a  lizard  that  sunned  itself 
near  us  on  the  terrace  and  lived  with  this  poor 
family  in  the  crevices  of  the  wall. 


I  28  GRAZIELLA  : 

XI. 

But  my  soul  and  my  face  grew  dark  with  the 
day.  I  became  sad  with  thinking  that  I  should 
be  obliged  to  return  to  my  lodgings.  Graziella 
was  the  first  to  notice  it.  She  whispered  a  few 
words  in  her  grandmother's  ear,  and  then  the  old 
lady  said  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  her  own  son  : 

"Why  do  you  leave  us?  We  got  along  very 
well  together  in  Procida,  and  are  we  not  the 
same  in  Xaples  ?  You  look  like  a  bird  that  has 
lost  its  mother  and  goes  about  crving  from  nest 

o  ,         o 

to  nest.  Come  and  live  with  us — if  you  find  our 
lodgings  good  enough  for  a  gentleman  like  vour- 

O          O         O  O  O  * 

self?  The  house  lias  only  three  rooms,  it  is  true, 
but  Beppino  sleeps  in  the  boat.  The  children's 
room  will  do  for  Graziella  too,  if  she  might  work 
during  the  day  in  the  room  which  you  would 
occupy.  Take  hers,  then,  and  await  here  the 
return  of  your  friend.  It  is  too  bad  to  think  that 
a  voting  man,  as  good  and  sad  as  voti  are,  should 

-  o  O  - 

be  alone  in  the  streets  of  Xaples." 

The  old  fisherman,   Beppino,  even   the  little 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          129 

children,  who  already  loved  the  stranger,  joined 
in  with  the  grandmother's  idea.  All  insisted 
earnestly  that  I  should  accept  her  offer.  Graz- 
iella  alone  was  silent,  but  she  awaited  with  an 
anxiety  plain  to  be  seen,  although  she  attempted 
to  conceal  it  with  a  little  dissemblance,  my 
answer  to  her  relatives'  entreaties.  She  stamped 
her  little  foot  with  a  nervous  and  involuntary 
movement  at  all  the  discreet  reasons  I  gave  for 
not  accepting. 

At  last  1  lifted  my  eyes  to  hers.  I  saw  them 
moister  and  more  brilliant  than  usual,  and 
noticed  that  she  rubbed  and  crushed  between  her 
fingers  branches  of  a  sweet -basil  plant  that 
grew  in  one  of  the  flower-pots  on  the  balcony. 
I  understood  this  movement  better  than  long 
speeches.  I  accepted  the  community  of  life  that 
was  offered  me.  Graziella  clapped  her  hands 
gleefully  and  rushed  out  into  her  room  without 
looking  back,  as  if  she  proposed  to  take  me  at 
my  word  and  did  not  wish  to  give  me  time  to 
Detract  it. 
9 


130  GRAZIEI.LA: 


XII. 

Graziclla  called  Beppino.  In  a  moment  she 
and  her  brothers  were  carrying  into  the  children's 
room  her  bed,  her  scant  furniture,  her  little  look- 
ing-glass with  its  frame  of  painted  wood,  the 

O    o  i 

brass  lamp,  the  two  or  three  images  of  the  Virgin 
that  had  been  hanging  upon  the  wall,  fastened 
there  with  pins,  the  table  and  the  little  machine 
at  which  she  worked  her  coral.  They  brought 
Avater  from  the  well,  and  with  the  palm  of  their 
hands  scoured  the  floor;  they  swept  the  coral 
dust  carefully  from  the  wood-work  and  the  wall ; 
they  placed  upon  the  window-sill  two  pots  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  fragrant  balsam  and  migno- 
nette that  they  could  find  on  the  astrico.  They 
could  not  have  been  more  particular  in  cleaning 
and  arranging  a  bridal-chamber  if  Beppino  were 
to  have  brought  home  his  wife  that  very  even- 
ing. I  laughingly  helped  them  in  this  pastime. 

When  all  was  clone,  I  took  Beppino  and  his 
grandfather  with  me  to  buv  and  briivj;  to  the 


A    STORY  OF  IT  ALT  AN  LOVE.          131 


house  such  little  furniture  as  it  was  necessary 
for  me  to  have.  I  bought  a  little  iron  bedstead 
complete,  a  plain  wooden  table,  two  rush-bottom 
chairs,  a  little  brazen  fire-pan,  in  which,  accord- 
ing to  custom,  to  burn  olive-stones  of  a  winter's 
evening  to  warm  the  room;  my  trunk,  which  I 
sent  for,  contained  all  the  rest  of  my  possessions. 
I  did  not  wish  to  lose  a  single  night  of  this 

o  o 

happy  life  that  carried  me  back  to  my  own  family. 
That  same  evening  I  slept  in  my  new  lodgings. 
I  did  not  awake  till  I  heard  the  joyous  cry  of  the 
swallows,  that  had  entered  my  room  through  a 
broken  window-pane,  and  Graziella's  voice  sing- 
ing in  the  room  next  to  me,  accompanying  her 
song  with  the  monotonous  movement  of  her 
machine. 

XIII. 

I  opened  the  window  which  looked  out  upon 
the  little  gardens  belonging  to  the  fishermen  and 
washerwomen,  and  encased  in  the  rocks  of  Mount 
Posilippo  and  in  the  Piazza  della  Margellina. 

Great  rocks  of  brown   sandstone   had   rolled 


132  GRAZIELLA: 


down  from  Mount  Posilippo  into  these  gardens 
and  very  near  the  house.  Large  fig-trees,  that 
were  growing  so  near  the  rocks  as  to  be  half 
crushed  by  them,  seized  these  rocks  with  their 
white  tortuous  arms  and  covered  them  with  thick, 
motionless  leaves.  From  this  side  of  the  house 
I  could  see  only  the  gardens  of  these  poor  people ; 
some  wells,  over  which  stood  large  wheels,  which 
were  turned  by  asses,  for  the  purpose  of  water- 
ing the  gutters  that  ran  between  the  rows  of 
fennel,  turnips  and  cabbages;  women  drying 
linen  on  ropes  that  were  stretched  from  one 
lemon-tree  to  another;  little  children  in  their 
shirts,  that  were  crying  or  playing  on  the  terraces 
of  the  three  or  four  little  white  houses  scattered 
through  the  gardens.  This  prospect,  so  con- 
tracted, common  and  bare,  of  the  suburbs  of  a 
large  city,  was  a  delightful  one  to  me  in  com- 
parison with  the  high  houses,  dark  streets  and 
noisy  crowd  of  the  quarters  1  had  just  left.  I 
breathed  pure  air  instead  of  the  dust,  the  fire 
and  the  smoke  of  the  human  atmosphere  which 


A    STOKY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          133 


I  had  just  left.  I  heard  the  braying  of  the  asses, 
the  crowing  of  the  cock,  the  rustling  of  the 
leaves,  the  roaring  of  the  sea,  instead  of  the  rum- 
bling of  wagons,  sharp  cries  of  the  people  selling 
their  wares,  and  the  incessant  thunder  of  all 
the  rasping  noises  in  the  streets  of  a  large  city, 
which  afford  no  relaxation  to  the  ear  and  no 
quiet  to  the  mind. 

I  could  not  tear  myself  from  my  bed  for  enjoy- 
ing the  sun,  the  sounds  of  the  country,  the  flying 
of  the  birds  and  a  repose  of  the  soul  that  was 
scarcely  ruffled  ;  and  then,  looking  at  the  naked- 
ness of  the  walls,  the  emptiness  of  the  room  and 
the  meagerness  of  the  furniture,  I  rejoiced  to 
think  that  this  poor  household  at  least  loved  me, 
and  that  carpets,  elegant  hangings  and  silk  cur- 
tains were  not  worth  that  little  affection.  All  the 
gold  in  the  world  can  not  buy  a  single  heart- 
beat nor  a  single  glance  of  tenderness  from  the 
eyes  of  those  who  are  indifferent  to  you. 

These  thoughts  rocked  me  softly  in  my  cradle 
of  half-sleep;  I  felt  myself  reborn  to  health  and 


134  GKA/.IELLA: 

peace.  Beppino  came  into  the  room  several 
times  to  see  if  I  needed  anything.  He  brought 
to  my  bed  bread  and  grapes,  which  I  ate,  throw- 
ing the  crumbs  and  the  little  stones  to  the  swal- 
lows. It  was  nearly  noon.  The  full  rays  of  the 
sun  entered  through  the  window,  when  I  arose, 
with  the  peculiarly  mild  temperature  of  the 
Autumn.  I  agreed  with  the  fisherman  and  his 
wife  upon  a  small  price  which  I  was  to  pay  them 
monthly  for  the  rent  of  my  room,  and  to  add 
something  toward  defraying  the  general  expense 
of  the  household.  It  was  very  little,  indeed,  but 
these  good  people  thought  it  a  great  deal  too  much. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that,  far  from  desiring  to  make 
anything  from  my  stay  with  them,  they  were  sorry 
that  their  poverty  and  their  necessarily  modest 
way  of  living  did  not  permit  them  to  offer  me  a 
hospitality  of  which  they  would  have  been 
prouder  if  it  had  cost  me  nothing.  They  added 
to  what  they  usually  bought  every  morning  two 
little  loaves  of  bread,  a  piece  of  fish  boiled  or 
fried  for  dinner,  milk  or  dried  fruits  for  supper. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          135 

oil  for  my  lamp  and  some  charcoal  for  the  colder 
days;   this  was  all. 

A  few  copper  grani,  a  small  coin  in  use  among 
the  people  of  Naples,  sufficed  to  pay  my  daily 
expenses.  I  have  never  better  understood  how 
independent  happiness  is  of  luxury,  and  how 
much  more  of  it  one  can  buy  with  a  single  cop- 
per penny  than  with  a  purse  of  gold,  when  one 
knows  just  where  God  has  hidden  it. 
XIV. 

I  lived  in  this  way  during  the  last  months  of 
Autumn  and  the  first  months  of  Winter.  The 
beauty  and  quiet  of  these  months  in  Naples 
make  one  confound  them  with  those  that  pre- 
cede them.  Nothing  disturbed  the  monotonous 
tranquility  of  our  life.  The  old  man  and  his 
grandson  did  not  go  out  into  the  open  sea  any 
more,  on  account  of  the  frequent  storms  of  this 
season  of  the  year.  They  continued  to  fish  along 
the  coast,  and  the  fish  they  caught,  which  the 
grandmother  sold  at  the  "  marine/'  was  sufficient 
for  their  life  without  wants. 


136  CA'A/JELLA: 


Craziella  perfected  herself  in  her  art  ;  she 
grew  rapidly  and  developed  beautifully  in  the 
more  quiet,  sedentary  life  which  she  lived  since 
she  had  been  working  coral.  The  pay,  which  her 
uncle  brought  her  every  Sunday,  was  enough, 
not  only  to  keep  her  brothers  better  and  more 
neatly  clothed  than  formerly  and  send  them  to 
school,  but  to  give,  besides,  to  her  grandmother 
and  herself  many  of  those  rich  and  elegant 
articles  of  dress  peculiar  to  the  women  of  their 
island :  handkerchiefs  of  red  silk  to  hang  down 
behind  the  head  and  over  the  shoulders  in  a  tri- 
angular shape  ;  shoes  without  heels,  that  covered 
only  the  toes  of  the  feet  and  were  embroidered 
with  silver  cord;  silk  sacks  striped  in  black  and 
green.  These  sacks  are  laced  at  the  seams  and 
fall  open  on  the  hips ;  they  expose  to  view  the 
form  of  the  waist  and  the  mould  of  the  neck  orna- 
mented with  chains.  They  wore,  besides,  carved 
ear  rings,  in  which  pearls  were  interwoven  with 
gold  threads.  The  poor  women  of  the  Grecian 
islands  wear  these  ornaments.  No  distress  ever 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          137 

forces  them  to  give  them  up.  In  climates  where 
the  sentiment  of  beauty  is  more  lively  than  under 
our  sky,  and  where  life  is  nothing  but  love,  these 
ornaments  are  not  luxuries  in  the  eyes  of  the 
women :  they  are  the  first  and  almost  the  only 

necessity. 

XV. 

When  on  the  Sabbath  and  fete  days  Graziella 
thus  attired  would  come  out  from  her  room  upon 
the  terrace,  with  a  flower  or  two  of  rose-laurel 
or  pomegranate  on  the  side  of  her  head  and 
hidden  in  her  black  hair ;  when,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  the  bells  in  the  neighboring  chapel, 
she  walked  up  and  down  before  my  window,  as 
proud  as  a  pea-fowl  that  suns  itself  on  the  roof, 
when  she  languidly  trailed  her  little  feet,  impris- 
oned in  spangled  slippers,  looking  at  them  as  she 
did  so,  and  then  raised  her  head  with  an  habit- 
ually graceful  turn  of  the  neck  that  caused  the 
silk  handkerchief  and  her  hair  to  toss  about  over 
her  shoulders;  and  when  she  saw  that  I  was 
looking  at  her,  she  would  blush  as  if  ashamed  of 


GRAZIELLA  : 


being  so  handsome.  It  was  in  such  moments  as 
these  that  the  new  brilliancy  of  her  beauty  struck 
me  so  forcibly  that  I  imagined  I  saw  her  for  the 
first  time,  and  my  customary,  familiar  manner 
would  change  into  a  sort  of  reserve  and  bashful- 
ness. 

But  she  tried  so  little  to  be  dazzling  and  her 
natural  instinct  for  ornaments  was  so  devoid  of 
vanity  and  coquetry,  that  just  as  soon  as  she 
returned  from  the  holy  ceremonies  of  the  day, 
she  hastened  to  take  off  her  rich  apparel,  and  in 
its  place  to  put  on  the  simple  jacket  of  coarse 
green  cloth  and  her  dress  of  red  and  black 
striped  calico,  and  to  slip  on  her  feet  her  other 
slippers  with  a  wooden  heel,  which  could  be 
heard  upon  the  terrace  all  the  rest  of  the  day 
like  the  echoing  slippers  of  the  female  slaves  in 
the  Orient. 

When  her  young  friends  did  not  call  for  her 
or  her  cousin  accompany  her  to  church,  I  would 
often  go  with  her  myself  and  wait  on  the  church- 
steps  until  the  service  was  over.  When  she  came 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          139 

out,  I  heard  with  a  sort  of  personal  pride,  as  if 
she  had  been  my  sister  or  my  sweetheart,  the 
murmurs  of  admiration  which  her  graceful  figure 
excited  among  her  companions  and  among  the 
young  sailors  of  the  quays  of  Margellina.  But 
she  heard  nothing  of  all  this  and,  seeing  no  one 
but  me  in  the  crowd,  smiled  upon  me  from  the 
very  highest  step,  made  her  last  sign  of  the  cross, 
her  fingers  dripping  with  the  holy  water,  and, 
with  her  eyes  drooping  modestly,  came  to  the 
the  bottom  of  the  stairway  where  I  stood  waiting 
for  her. 

Almost  every  festival,  I  took  Graziella  in  this 
way,  night  and  morning,  to  church  service,  the 
pious  and  the  only  recreation  which  she  knew 
and  loved.  I  took  care  on  such  occasions  to 
make  my  dress  as  nearly  as  possible  like  that  of 
the  young  sailors  of  the  island,  that  no  one  might 
be  astonished  at  my  presence  and  that  I  might 
be  taken  for  the  brother  or  relative  of  the  young 
girl  whom  I  accompanied. 

On  other  days   she   never  went  out.     As  to 


GRAZIELLA  : 


myself,  I  had  resumed  gradually  my  former  stu- 
dious life  and  solitary  habits,  relieved  only  by 
my  pleasant  friendship  with  Gra/ciella  and  my 
cordial  relations  with  the  family.  I  read  the 
historians  and  poets  of  all  languages.  Some- 
times I  wrote;  I  tried,  now  in  Italian  now  in 
French,  to  pour  out  in  prose  or  verse  the  first 
passions  of  the  soul,  which  seem  to  weigh  on  the 
heart  until  words  have  lightened  it  by  giving 
them  expression. 

It  would  seem  as  though  language  is  the  only 
predestination  of  man,  and  that  he  is  created  to 
bring  it  forth  as  his  fruit.  Man  frets  until  he  has 
given  external  expression  to  that  which  works 
within.  Written  language  is  like  a  mirror  which 
it  is  necessary  to  have  in  order  that  man  may 
know  himself  and  be  sure  that  he  exists.  So 
long  as  he  does  not  see  himself  in  his  works  he 
is  not  sure  that  he  lives.  The  soul,  like  the  body, 
has  its  ripe  age. 

I  was  just  at  that  time  of  life  when  the  soul 
has  need  to  nourish  and  multiply  itself  in  words. 


A    S7^0RY  OF  ITALIAN  LOTE.          141 

But,  as  is  always  the  case,  I  felt  the  desire 
before  I  possessed  the  po'.ver  of  expression.  I 
had  no  sooner  written  than  I  was  dissatisfied 
with  my  work,  and  threw  it  away  in  disgust. 
How  often  have  the  wind  and  the  waves  of  the 
sea  of  Naples  carried  away  and  engulfed  the 
shreds  of  thoughts  and  sentiments  of  the  night 
before,  torn  up  in  the  morning,  and  flying  far 
away  from  me  without  a  single  regret? 

XVI. 

Sometimes  Graziella,  seeing  me  shut  up  in  my 
room  and  silent  longer  than  usual,  would  steal 
in  softly  to  tear  me  away  from  my  reading  or 
other  occupation.  She  would  advance  noise- 
lessly behind  my  chair;  raise  herself  on  tip-toe 
to  look  over  my  shoulder,  without  understanding 
a  word  of  what  I  read  or  what  I  wrote  ;  then, 
with  a  quick  and  sudden  movement,  she  would 
snatch  the  book  or  the  pen  out  of  my  fingers  as 
she  ran  away.  I  would  follow  her  to  the  terrace 
half  inclined  for  the  moment  to  be  angry;  she 


142  GRAZIELLA 


would  laugh.  Then  I  would  forgive  her,  and 
she  would  scold  me  as  if  she  had  been  my 
mother. 

"  What  has  this  book  to  say  to  your  eyes  that 
it  keeps  you  so  long  to-day?"  she  would  ask 
with  an  impatience  that  was  half  real  and  half 
playful.  u  Will  these  black  lines  on  this  ugly 
old  paper  never  get  through  talking  to  you  ? 
Do  you  not  already  know  enough  stories  to  tell 
one  over  every  Sunday  and  every  evening  of 
the  year,  like  that  which  made  me  cry  so  much 
at  Procida  ?  And  to  whom  do  you  write  all 
night  long  those  letters  which  the  next  morning 

O  o  O 

you  throw  to  the  wind  and  the  sea?  Do  you 
not  know  that  you  are  making  yourself  sick,  and 
that  you  are  all  pale  and  nervous  reading  or 
writing  so  long?  Is  it  not  better  to  talk  with 
me,  who  can  look  into  your  eyes,  than  with  the 
dead,  or  with  ghosts,  who  can  not  hear  you  ? 
Lord  !  If  I  had  as  much  spirit  as  tho^e  sheets 
of  paper  !  I  would  talk  to  you  the  whole  day,  I 
would  tell  vou  everv  thing  that  you  wanted  to 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          143 

know,  and  you  would  not  be  obliged  to  wear  out 
your  eyes  and  burn  out  all  the  oil  in  your 
lamp." 

Then  she  would  hide  my  book  and  pens,  bring 
me  my  coat  and  sailor's  hood,  and  make  me  go 
out  to  walk.  I  would  obey  her  under  protest 
and  —  love. 


PART     FOURTH. 
I. 

I  USED  to  take  long  walks  through  the  town, 
on  the  quays  and  into  the  country ;  but 
these  lonely  walks  were  not  as  sad  as  during  the 
first  days  of  my  return  to  Naples.  I  enjoyed  to 
the  full  the  delightful  sights  of  the  city,  on  the 
sea-shore,  and  of  the  heavens  and  the  waters. 
That  heavy  feeling  of  isolation  did  not  over- 
whelm me  as  formerly,  but  concentrated  the 
force  of  my  thoughts  and  soul  in  deep  medita- 
tion. I  knew  that  kind  eyes  and  friendly 
thoughts  followed  me  whether  in  a  crowd  or  a 
deserted  place,  and  that  hearts,  full  of  my  pres- 
ence, awaited  my  return. 

I    was    no    longer    like    the    lost    bird    crying 
around  strange  nests,  to   use  the  expression  of 

10  '45 


146  CRAZIELLA  : 


the  old  grandmother ;  I  was  like  a  bird  that 
flies  far  from  the  branch  which  holds  it,  yet 
always  knows  its  way  back.  The  whole  tide  of 
my  affection  for  my  absent  friend  had  been 
turned  upon  Graziella.  This  sentiment,  how- 
ever, was  something  more  lively,  acute  and 
affectionate  than  that  which  attached  me  to  my 
friend.  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  one  was  the 
consequence  of  habit  and  circumstance,  but  that 
the  other  was  born  of  me  and  that  I  had  attained 
it  of  my  own  choice. 

It  was  not  love  ;  I  felt  neither  the  palpita- 
tions, the  jealousy  nor  the  absent-mindedness 
of  passion  ;  there  was  a  delicious  repose  of  the 
heart  instead  of  a  fever  of  the  soul  and  senses. 
I  thought  neither  of  loving  otherwise  nor  of 
being  loved  more.  I  did  not  know  whether  she 
was  a  companion,  a  friend,  a  sister,  or  in  what 
relation  she  stood  to  me ;  I  knew  only  that  I 
was  happy  with  her,  and  that  she  was  happy 
with  me. 

I   wished   for   nothing  more,  nothing  else.     I 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          147 

was  not  of  an  age  to  analyze  what  I  experienced 
and  thus  afford  myself  an  abstract  and  useless 
definition  of  my  happiness.  It  was  enough  for 
me  to  feel  quiet,  affectionate  and  happy  without 
knowing  how  or  why.  Living  and  thinking 
together  cemented  every  day  more  and  more 
strongly  the  harmless  and  gentle  intimacy  that 
had  been  formed  between  us,  and  she  was  as 
pure  in  her  confidence  as  I  was  undisturbed  in 
my  indifference. 

II. 

During  the  three  months  that  I  was  of  the 
same  family,  living  under  the  same  roof,  and,  as 
it  were,  making  a  part  of  her  very  thought,  Gra- 
ziella  became  so  accustomed  to  looking  upon 
me  as  inseparable  from  her  that  she  did  not 
herself  know,  perhaps,  how  large  a  place  I  held 
in  her  heart.  In  my  presence  she  showed  none 
of  the  shame,  reserve  and  fear  that  interpose  in 
the  relations  between  a  young  girl  and  a  young 
man,  and  which  often  cause  love  to  be  born  of 
the  very  precautions  which  are  intended  to  keep 


I48  GRAZ1ELLA: 

it  away.  She  never  dreamed,  nor  did  I,  scarcely, 
that  the  natural  graces  of  the  child,  developed 
with  all  the  splendor  of  an  early  maturity,  made 
her  artless  beauty  a  power  for  her,  an  admira- 
tion for  all,  and  a  danger  for  me.  She  took  no 
pains  to  conceal  it  or  adorn  it  in  my  eyes  ;  she 
no  more  thought  of  it  than  a  sister  thinks 
whether  she  is  pretty  or  homely  in  the  eyes  of 
a  brother.  She  did  not  cover  her  bare  feet  with 
her  shoes  any  more  frequently  when  she  dressed 
her  little  brothers  in  the  morning  on  the  terrace, 
under  the  sun,  or  when  she  helped  her  grand- 
mother sweep  the  fallen  leaves  from  the  roof. 
She  came  into  my  bedroom,  the  door  of  which 
was  always  open,  at  any  hour,  and  sat  down  on 
a  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  as  innocently  as 
Beppino  did  the  same  thing. 

On  rainy  days  and  in  bad  weather  I  would 
pass  whole  hours  in  her  room,  just  next  to  mine, 
where  she  slept  with  the  children  and  worked 
at  her  coral.  I  assisted  her,  laughing  and  chat- 
ting, with  her  work,  which  she  taught  me. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          149 

With  less  art  but  more  strength  than  she  pos- 
sessed, I  succeeded  better  in  trimming  the 
pieces.  In  this  way  we  accomplished  double 
the  work  and  in  one  day  she  earned  the  pay 
of  two. 

But  in  the  evening,  when  the  children  and  the 
family  had  retired,  it  was  she  who  became  the 
scholar  and  I  the  teacher.  I  taught  her  to  read 
and  write,  and  made  her  spell  the  words  in  my 
books,  or  write  them  as  I  held  and  directed  her 
hand.  It  was  impossible  for  her  cousin  to  come 
every  day  and,  when  he  did  not,  I  took  his 
place.  Whether  it  was  because  this  young  man, 
humpbacked  and  deformed,  did  not  inspire  his 
cousin  with  sufficient  regard  and  respect,  not- 
withstanding the  kindness,  patience  and  serious- 
ness of  his  manner,  or  because  there  was  too 
much  to  attract  her  attention  from  the  lesson 
when  he  gave  it,  it  is  certain  that  she  made 
more  progress  with  me  than  with  him. 

With  him,  half  of  the  evening  set  apart  for 
study  was  passed  in  playing,  mimicking  and 


CRAZIELI.A  : 


laughing  at  the  pedagogue.  The  poor  young 
man  was  too  much  taken  up  with  his  pupil  and 
too  timid  in  her  presence  ever  to  scold  her.  He- 
did  everything  she  wished  him  to  do  in  order 
that  the  pretty  forehead  of  the  your.g  girl  should 
not  contract  into  a  frown  or  her  ripe  lips  form 
into  a  pout.  Very  often  was  the  hour  that 
should  have  been  devoted  to  reading  passed  in 
paring  coral,  in  reeling  skeins  of  wool  on  the 
grandmother's  distaff,  or  in  mending  some  of 
Beppo's  torn  nets.  It  was  all  the  same  to  him, 
if,  when  he  went  away,  Gra/.iella  smiled  upon 
him  pleasantly  and  said  "  addio'"  to  him  in  a 
tone  of  voice  that  might  have  meant  "an  rcvoir" 

III. 

But  when  I  was  the  teacher,  the  lesson  was 
serious.  It  often  extended  away  into  the  night 
until  our  eyes  were  heavy  with  sleep.  I  could 
see  in  her  drooping  head  and  stretched  neck,  in 
the  attentive  immobility  of  her  attitude  and 
features,  that  the  poor  girl  made  every  effort  to 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          151 

succeed.  She  leaned  her  elbow  on  my  shoulder 
to  read  out  of  the  book  in  which  my  finger  traced 
the  line  and  indicated  the  word  to  be  pro- 
nounced. When  she  wrote  I  held  her  fingers  in 
my  hand  to  half-guide  the  pen. 

If  she  made  an  error,  I  scolded  her  severely; 
she  would  not  answer,  and  if  she  ever  became 
impatient  it  was  only  at  herself.  I  saw  her 
sometimes  just  ready  to  cry;  then  I  would  speak 
more  softly  and  encourage  her  to  begin  again. 
But  if  she  had  read  or  written  well,  it  could  be 
seen  that  she  looked  for  her  reward  in  my  ap- 
plause. She  would  turn  around  to  me,  blushing, 
with  pride  and  joy  depicted  on  her  forehead  and 
in  her  eyes,  prouder  of  the  pleasure  that  she 
gave  me  than  of  the  little  triumph  of  her  own 
success. 

T  always  rewarded  her  by  reading  a  few  pages 
of  "Paul  and  Virginia,"  which  was  still  her 
favorite,  or  some  of  those  beautiful  stanzas  of 
Tasso's  in  which  he  describes  the  rustic  life  of 
the  shepherds  with  whom  Herminia  lived,  or 


152  GRAZIELLA: 


where  he  sings  the  laments  or  despair  of  the 
two  lovers.  The  music  of  these  verses  made 
her  weep  and  dream  long  after  I  had  ceased  to 
read.  Poetry  has  no  echo  so  loud  and  long  as  in 
the  heart  of  youth  in  which  love  is  just  spring- 
ing into  life.  It  is  like  the  presentiment  of  all 
the  passions.  Later  it  is  their  souvenir  and 
their  dirge.  It  brings  tears  in  both  extremes 
of  life:  to  the  young,  tears  of  hope;  to  the  old, 
tears  of  regret. 

IV. 

The  delightful  intimacy  of  these  long,  quiet 
evenings,  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  and  by  the 
genial  warmth  of  the  olives  that  burned  in  the 
pan  at  our  feet,  brought  no  other  thoughts  nor 
familiarities  between  us  than  those  of  children. 
We  were  guarded,  I  by  my  almost  cold  indiffer- 
ence, she  by  her  frankness  and  purity.  We 
separated  as  tranquilly  as  we  had  met,  and  a 
moment  after  these  long  interviews,  we  fell 
asleep  under  the  same  roof,  within  a  few  feet  of 
each  other,  like  two  children  who  have  been 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          153 

playing  together  in  the  evening,  who  dream  of 
nothing  else  than  their  simple  amusements. 
These  peaceful  sentiments  which  ignore  while 
they  nourish  themselves,  might  have  lasted  for 
years,  had  not  a  circumstance  transpired  that 
changed  every  thing  and  revealed  to  us  the 
nature  of  a  friendship  that  had  sufficed  to  make 
us  so  very  happy. 

V. 

Cecco,  for  such  was  the  name  of  Graziella's 
cousin,  continued  coming  to  the  house  more 
assiduously  from  day  to  day,  and  to  pass  the 
winter  evenings  with  the  family  of  the  viarinaro. 
Although  the  young  girl  showed  him  no  mark  of 
preference,  and,  indeed,  often  made  him  the  butt 
of  ridicule,  he  was  so  soft,  so  patient  and  so 
humble  in  her  presence  that  she  could  not  help 
being  touched  by  his  kindness,  and  sometimes 
smiled  upon  him  graciously.  This  was  all  he 
asked.  His  was  one  of  the  weak  but  loving 
hearts,  which,  feeling  itself  disinherited  by  nature 
of  qualities  that  inspire  affection,  was  content  to 


154  GRAZIELLA  : 


love  without  return,  and  he  made  himself  a  volun- 
tary slave  to  the  service  if  not  to  the  happiness 
of  her  to  whom  he  had  given  that  heart.  Such 
natures  are  not  always  the  most  noble  but  often 
the  most  touching  instances  of  affection.  You 
may  pity  them,  but  you  must  admire  them.  To 
love  for  the  sake  of  being  loved  is  human,  but 
to  love  for  the  sake  of  loving  is  angelic. 

VI. 

And,  under  the  homeliest  of  features,  there  was 
something  angelic  in  the  love  of  poor  Cecco. 
Far  from  experiencing  any  humiliation  or  jealousy 
from  the  familiarity  or  preference  which  Graziella 
showed  me  before  his  very  eyes,  he  loved  me  be- 
cause she  did.  He  did  not  demand  the  first  or  the 
only  place  in  the  affection  of  his  cousin,  but  the 
second  or  the  last:  any  place  was  enough  for 
him.  To  give  her  a  moment's  pleasure,  to  earn 
one  look  of  gratitude,  or  a  gesture,  or  a  gracious 
word,  he  would  have  searched  for  me  in  the  re- 
motest corner  of  France  and  brought  me  back  to 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          155 

her  who  preferred  me  to  him.  I  believe  he  would 
have  hated  me  if  I  had  caused  her  the  slightest 
pain. 

His  pride  as  well  as  his  love  was  in  her. 
Perhaps  inwardly  cold,  prudent,  reflective  and 
calculating,  such  as  God  and  his  own  infirmity 
had  made  him,  he  reckoned  intuitively  that  my 
power  over  his  cousin's  feelings  could  not  last 
always;  that  something  or  other  would  inevitably 
happen  to  separate  us;  that  I  was  a  stranger 
from  a  distant  country,  of  birth  and  fortune 
evidently  incompatible  with  the  station  of  a  poor 
Procida  fisherman's  daughter;  that  some  day  the 
intimacy  between  his  cousin  and  me  would  be 
broken  off  as  it  had  been  formed  ;  that  then  she 
would  be  left  to  him  alone,  abandoned,  desolate; 
that  this  very  despair  would  soften  her  heart  and 
give  it  to  him  bruised  but  entire.  This  part  of 
consoler  and  friend  was  the  only  one  to  which 
he  could  make  any  pretension,  but  his  father 
had  another  thought  for  him. 


156  GRAZIELLA: 


VII. 

The  father,  knowing  Cecco's  affection  for  his 
niece,  came  to  see  her  from  time  to  time.  Moved 
by  her  beauty  and  virtue;  astonished  at  the 
rapid  progress  she  had  made  in  her  art,  in  read- 
ing and  writing;  thinking,  besides,  that  Cecco's 
natural  deformity  did  not  permit  of  his  inspiring 
other  sentiments  than  those  of  agreement  and 
domesticity,  he  had  resolved  to  marry  his  son  to 
his  niece.  His  fortune  made,  and  large  enough 

o  o 

for  a  workman,  permitted  him  to  regard  his  offer 
as  a  favor  which  neither  Andrea,  his  wife  nor  the 
young  girl  would  even  think  of  refusing.  Whether 
he  had  told  his  intentions  to  Cecco,  or  concealed 
them  in  order  to  surprise  his  son  with  his  happi- 
ness, he  resolved  to  speak  to  the  family. 

VIII. 

On  Christmas  Eve  I  came  in  later  than  usual 
to  take  my  place  at  the  family  table.  I  saw  signs 
of  coolness  and  trouble  in  the  evidently  con- 


A    STOKY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          157 

strained  features  of  Andrea  and  his  wife.  Lift- 
ing my  eyes  to  Graziella,  I  saw  that  she  had 
been  weeping.  Content  and  joy  were  so  generally 
to  be  seen  in  her  face  that  this  unusual  expres- 
sion of  sadness  covered  her  like  a  veil.  One 
would  have  said  that  the  shadow  of  her  thoughts 
and  heart  was  spread  over  her  features.  I  re- 
mained silent  and  motionless,  not  daring  to 
question  these  poor  people,  nor  to  talk  to  Graz- 
iella, from  fear  that  the  sound  of  my  voice  would 
bring  on  an  outburst,  which  she  seemed  scarcely 
able  to  restrain. 

Contrary  to  her  custom,  she  did  not  look  at 
me  at  all.  She  carried  pieces  of  bread  to  her 
mouth  with  a  listless  hand,  and  made  believe 
eat  it  for  appearance'  sake;  but  she  could  not, — 
she  threw  the  bread  under  the  table.  After  the 
silent  meal  was  finished,  she  made  a  pretext  for 
leaving  the  room  to  put  the  children  in  bed;  she 
took  them  into  their  bedroom,  and  then,  without 
saying  good-night  to  her  relatives  or  to  me,  she 
left  us  alone. 


158  GRAZIF.I.LA: 

WhcMi  she  had  gone  out  I  asked  the  father 
and  mother  what  cause  there  was  for  their  own 
seriousness  and  the  sadness  of  their  daughter. 
Then  they  told  me  that  Cecco's  father  had  been 
to  the  house  during  the  day,  that  lie  had  asked 
their  granddaughter  in  marriage  for  his  son ; 
that  it  was  great  happiness  and  great  good  for- 
tune for  the  family;  that  Cecco  would  have 
property;  that  Graziella,  who  was  so  good,  would 
take  her  two  little  brothers  with  her  and  rear 
them  as  if  they  were  her  own  children  ;  that  now 
their  old  days  would  be  assured  to  them  against 
misery;  that  they  had  consented  with  gratitude 
to  the  marriage  and  then  spoken  to  Graziella 
about  it;  that  she,  from  timidity  and  maidenly 
modesty,  had  not  answered  them  at  all ;  that  her 
silence  and  tears  only  came  from  her  surprise 
and  emotion,  which  would  soon  pass  away  like  a 
bee  over  a  flower;  and  that  it  had  been  agreed 
between  Cecco's  father  and  themselves  that  the 
engagement  should  be  celebrated  immediately 
after  the  Christmas  holidavs. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          159 

IX. 

They  talked  long  after  I  had  ceased  to  hear 
a  word.  I  had  never  rendered  myself  any 
account  of  my  attachment  for  Graziella.  I  did 
not  know  how  I  loved  her, — whether  it  was  pure 
companionship,  friendship,  love,  habit,  or  all  of 
these  sentiments  combined,  that  made  up  my 
affection  for  her.  But  the  idea  of  seeing  these 
sweet  relations  of  life  and  love  that  had  been 
formed  and  cemented  between  us,  almost  with- 
out our  knowledge,  suddenly  changed ;  the 
thought  that  she  was  to  be  taken  from  me  all  at 
once  and  given  to  another;  that  from  being  my 
companion  and  my  sister  she  was  to  become  a 
stranger  and  indifferent  to  me;  that  she  would 
no  longer  be  near  me ;  that  I  should  see  her  no 
more  after  a  few  hours  or  a  few  days;  that  I 
should  never  again  hear  her  voice  call  me  ;  that 
I  could  no  longer  read  in  her  eyes  that  ray  of 
caressing  light  and  tenderness  always  shed 
upon  me,  that  softly  illumined  my  heart  and 


ifio  GRA7.IELI.A: 

reminded  me  of  my  mother  and  sisters;  the  void 
and  empty  night  in  which  I  pictured  to  myself 
the  following  day  when  her  husband  should  take 
her  to  another  home ;  this  room  in  which  she 
would  sleep  no  more,  my  own  which  she  would 
enter  no  more,  this  table  at  which  she  would  sit 
no  more ;  that  terrace  upon  which  I  should  no 
longer  hear  the  pattering  of  her  naked  feet,  or 
the  sound  of  her  voice  in  the  morning  calling  me 
from  sleep  ;  the  church  to  which  I  should  take 
her  no  more  of  a  Sunday;  the  boat  in  which  her 
place  would  be  empty  and  where  I  could  talk 
only  to  the  wind  and  sea  ;  the  happy  associations 
of  our  past  life,  which  rushed  into  my  mind  only 
again  to  suddenly  vanish  and  leave  me  in  an 
abyss  of  solitude  and  nothingness;  —  all  this 
made  me  feel  for  the  first  time  what  the  society 
of  this  young  girl  really  was  to  me.  All  this 
showed  me  too  vividly  that  the  love,  friendship, 
or  whatever  the  sentiment  was  that  attached  me 
to  her,  was  stronger  than  T  had  believed,  and 
that  the  unknown  fascination  of  mv  wild  Xea- 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          l6l 

politan  life  was  neither  the  sea  nor  the  boat,  nor 
the  humble  room  in  the  humble  house,  nor  the 
fisherman,  nor  his  wife,  nor  Beppo,  nor  the 
children  :  it  was  a  single  being,  and  this  being 
vanished,  all  else  would  vanish  with  her.  My 
life  without  her  presence  was  nothing.  I  felt  it. 
The  confession  of  that  moment,  which  I  had 
never  before  made  to  myself,  gave  me  such  a 
blow  that  my  heart  shook  under  it,  and  I  experi- 
enced something  of  the  riifinite  of  love  in  the 
infinite  of  sadness  in  which  my  heart  was  sud- 
denly submerged. 

X. 

I  sought  my  room  in  silence.  I  threw  myself 
upon  the  bed  without  undressing.  I  tried  to 
re'ad,  to  write,  to  think,  to  distract  myself  with 
some  hard  mental  work  that  could  overcome  my 
agitation.  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  The  inward 
excitement  was  so  great  that  I  could  have  but 
one  thought,  and  the  very  prostration  of  my 
strength  would  not  bring  me  sleep.  Never  had 
the  likeness  of  Graziella  appeared  so  ravishing 
ir 


1 62  GRAZIELLA: 


to  me,  and  haunted  me  so  persistently.  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  enjoy  it  as  something  seen 
every  day,  the  sweetness  of  which  is  only  felt 
after  it  has  been  lost.  Her  beauty,  indeed,  had 
been  nothing  to  me  before  that  hour;  I  had 
confounded  the  impression  that  it  had  made  on 
me  with  the  effect  of  the  friendship  which  I  felt 
for  her,  and  which  her  face  expressed  for  me.  I 
did  not  know  that  there  was  a  particle  of  admir- 
ation in  my  attachment ;  I  never  dreamed  that 
there  was  the  slightest  passion  in  her  tenderness. 

And  now  I  could  scarcely  account  for  it  all, 
even  in  the  tedious  wanderings  of  my  heart 
during  the  wakefulness  of  that  night.  All  was 
as  confused  in  my  grief  as  in  my  feelings.  I 
was  like  a  man  senseless  from  some  sudden  blow, 
who  knows  not  whence  comes  his  suffering,  but 
knows  only  that  he  suffers. 

I  left  my  bed  before  a  sound  was  heard  in  the 
house.  I  can  not  tell  what  instinct  prompted 
me  to  absent  myself  from  the  house  for  some 
time,  as  if  my  presence  would  be  an  invasion  of 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          163 


the  family  sanctuary  at  a  time  when  fate  so 
cruelly  agitated  it  before  a  stranger. 

As  I  went  out  I  came  upon  Beppo  and  told 
him  that  I  should  be  gone  for  several  days. 
Then  I  walked  listlessly  in  whichever  direction 
my  steps  took  me.  I  followed  the  long  quays  of 
Naples,  the  coast  of  Resina  and  Portici,  the 
base  of  Mount  Vesuvius.  I  took  guides  for 
Torre  del  Greco ;  I  slept  that  night  on  a  rock  at 
the  door  of  the  hermitage  of  San  Salvatore,  at 
the  confines  of  inhabited  nature,  where  the 
region  of  fire  begins.  As  the  volcano  had  been 
in  commotion  for  some  time  past,  and  at  every 
upheaval  threw  out  clouds  of  ashes  and  stones, 
which  we  could  hear  during  the  night  rolling 
down  into  the  ravine  of  lava  at  the  foot  of  the 
hermitage,  my  guides  refused  to  accompany  me 
any  further. 

I  ascended  alone;  I  clambered  painfully  up 
the  last  peak,  burying  my  hands  and  feet  in  the 
thick  and  burning  ashes  that  gave  way  under  the 
weight  of  my  body.  The  volcano  roared  and 


1 64  GRAZIELLA: 


thundered  at  intervals.  Burning  stones,  still  red 
with  fire,  rained  down  around  and  about  me, 
extinguishing  themselves  in  the  ashes.  But 
nothing  stopped  me.  I  reached  the  very  edge 
of  the  crater  and  there  sat  down.  I  saw  the 
sun  rise  over  the  gulf,  the  country  and  the 
splendid  city  of  Naples.  I  was  cold  and  insensi- 
ble to  this  sight  which  so  many  travelers  come 
thousands  of  miles  to  admire.  In  this  immensity 
of  light,  sea,  coast,  and  houses  glistening  in  the 
sun,  I  sought  only  a  little  white  spot  among  the 
dark  green  trees  at  the  other  end  of  the  hill  of 
Posilippo,  where  I  thought  I  could  distinguish 
Andrea's  cabin. 

Man  contemplates  and  grasps  at  space  in  vain  ; 
all  nature  furnishes  him  but  two  or  three  little 
spots  at  which  his  soul  aims.  Take  away  from 
life  the  heart  that  loves  you,  and  what  is  left? 
It  is  the  same  in  nature.  Blot  out  the  place  and 
the  house  which  your  thoughts  are  seeking  or 
which  your  reminiscences  people,  and  there  is  only 
a  noisy  nothingness,  in  which  the  look  penetrates 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          165 

to  find  neither  end  nor  repose.  Is  it  surprising 
then,  that  the  sublime  scenes  of  nature  should 
be  regarded  so  differently  by  travelers?  It  is 
because  every  one  carries  with  him  a  different 
point  of  view.  A  cloud  over  the  soul  conceals 
and  discolors  the  earth  more  than  a  cloud  over 
the  sky.  The  spectacle  is  in  the  spectator.  I 
found  it  so. 

XI. 

I  looked  at  every  thing;  I  saw  nothing.  In 
vain,  like  a  madman,  did  I  descend,  by  holding 
to  the  sharp  points  of  petrified  lava,  to  the  very 
mouth  of  the  crater.  In  vain  did  I  leap  over  the 
deep  crevices,  from  which  the  smoke  and  furious 
flames  came  up,  suffocating  and  burning  me.  In 
vain  did  I  regard  the  great  fields  of  sulphur  and 
crystali/ed  s;ilt  that  looked  like  glaciers  colored 
by  these  fiery  breaths.  I  remained  as  indifferent 
to  the  grandeur  as  I  was  to  fear.  My  soul  was 
elsewhere;  in  vain  did  I  try  to  recall  it. 

That  evening  I  returned  to  the  hermitage.  1 
dismissed  my  guides  and  walked  back  across  the 


1 66  GRAZIELLA: 


vineyards  to  Pompeii.  I  passed  the  entire  day 
ia  roaming  about  the  deserted  streets  of  this  en- 
gulfed city.  This  tomb,  opened  after  being 
closed  t\vo  thousand  years,  and  returning  its 
streets,  its  monuments  and  its  arts  to  the  light 
of  the  sun,  found  me  as  insensible  as  Ve- 
suvius. The  soul  of  all  these  ashes  had  been 
swept  away  by  the  breath  of  God  centuries  be- 
fore, so  that  it  no  longer  appealed  to  my  heart. 
I  trod  on  this  dust  of  men,  in  the  streets  of  what 
had  been  their  city,  with  as  much  indifference  as 
upon  the  heaps  of  empty  shells  cast  by  the  sea 
upon  its  shores.  Time  is  a  great  ocean,  which, 
like  the  other  ocean,  overflows  with  our  remains. 
We  can  not  weep  over  every  thing.  Every  man 
has  his  own  sorrows,  every  century  its  own  pity, 
and  this  is  enough. 

Leaving  Pompeii  I  plunged  in  among  the 
woody  mountain- passes  of  Castellamare  and 
Sorrento.  There  I  lived  for  several  days,  going 
from  one  village  to  another  and  getting  the  herds- 
men to  show  me  the  most  renowned  places  in 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          167 

their  mountains.  I  was  taken  for  a  painter  in 
search  of  studies,  because  from  time  to  time  I 
made  notes  in  a  little  book  of  drawings  that  my 
friend  had  left  behind  him.  But  I  was  only  an 
erratic  soul,  wandering  here  and  there  in  the 
country  to  exhaust  time.  All  failed  me.  It  was 
myself  that  was  wanting. 

I  could  go  on  no  longer  in  this  way.  When 
the  Christmas  holidays  had  passed  and  the  first 
day  of  the  year  also  —  that  day  of  which  men 
have  made  a  festival  as  if  to  seduce  and  appease 
Time  with  pleasures  and  garlands,  like  a  severe 
guest  whom  it  is  desirable  to  conciliate — I 
resolved  to  hasten  back  to  Naples.  I  reached 
the  city  during  the  night  hesitatingly,  divided 
between  my  impatience  to  see  Graziella  and  the 
fear  of  learning  that  I  should  not  see  her  again. 
I  stopped  twenty  times  ;  I  seated  myself  on  the 
sides  of  the  boats  as  I  neared  Margellina. 

A  few  steps  from  the  house  I  met  Beppo. 
With  a  cry  of  joy  he  threw  his  arms  about  my 
neck  as  though  he  had  been  a  younger  brother. 


1 68  CKAZIELLA  : 


He  led  me  toward  his  boat,  and  told  me  all 
that  had  happened  while  I  had  been  away. 

Every  thing  was  changed  in  the  house;  Gra/.- 
iella  had  done  nothing  but  weep  since  my 
departure.  She  did  not  come  to  the  table  for 
her  meals.  She  did  not  work  at  her  coral.  She 
passed  every  day  shut  up  in  her  room  without 
answering  when  she  was  called,  and  the  nights 
she  walked  up  and  down  on  the  terrace.  It  was 
reported  in  the  neighborhood  that  she  was  mad ; 
that  she  was  innamorata.  But  Beppo  knew  that 
this  was  not  true. 

All  the  trouble,  the  child  said,  came  because 
they  wished  her  to  marry  Cecco  and  she  did  not 
want  to  do  it.  Beppino  had  seen  it  all  and 
understood  it  all.  Cecco's  father  came  every 
day  to  demand  an  answer  from  the  grandfather 
and  grandmother.  They  never  ceased  torment- 
ing poor  Graziella  to  give  her  consent.  But  she 
would  not  allow  them  to  speak  of  it  even,  and 
said  that  she  would  rather  run  away  to  Geneva. 
This  is  an  expression  among  the  Catholic  people 


A    STOXY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          169 

of  Naples  analogous  to,  "  I  would  rather  turn 
apostate."  It  is  a  threat  worse  than  that  of  sui- 
cide ;  it  is  the  eternal  suicide  of  the  soul. 
Andrea  and  his  wife,  who  adored  Graziella, 
despaired  between  her  resistance  and  the  fear 
that  they  should  lose  this  excellent  chance  of 
establishing  her  for  life.  They  conjured  her  by 
their  gray  hairs ;  they  talked  to  her  of  their  old 
age,  of  their  poverty,  and  of  the  future  of  the 
two  little  ones.  Then  Graziella  would  soften. 
She  would  receive  poor  Cecco  a  little  better  — 
for  he  still  came  and  sat  humbly  during  the 
evening  at  his  cousin's  door,  playing  with  the 
children.  He  would  bid  her  "  Good  day,"  and 
"  Good  bye,"  through  the  door,  but  she  would 
rarely  answer  him  with  a  single  word.  Then  he 
would  go  away  dissatisfied,  but  resigned,  to 
come  again  the  next  day  just  the  same. 

"  My  sister  is  wrong,'"  said  Beppino ;  "Cecco 
loves  her  so  much,  and  he  is  so  good.  She 
would  be  happy  with  him.  Finally,  this  even- 
ing," he  went  on  to  say,  "  she  succumbed  to  the 


CRAZIELLA  : 


prayers  of  her  grandfather  and  grandmother  and 
to  Cecco's  tears.  She  opened  her  door  a  little 
way  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him ;  he  put 
a  ring  on  one  of  her  fingers  and  she  promised  to 
complete  the  engagement  to-morrow.  But  who 
knows  that  to-morrow  she  will  not  have  some 
new  caprice  ?  She,  who  used  to  be  so  light 
hearted  and  happy!  My  God!  how  she  has 
changed!  You  would  not  know  her!  " 

XII. 

Beppino  went  to  sleep  in  the  boat.  Informed 
as  I  was  by  him  of  all  that  had  transpired,  I 
went  into  the  house. 

Andrea  and  his  wife  were  sitting  alone  on  the 
astrico.  They  were  very  glad  to  see  me  again, 
and  reproached  me  tenderly  for  having  remained 
away  so  long.  They  went  all  over  their  trials 
and  hopes  in  regard  to  Gra/iella. 

"If  you  had  been  here,"  said  Andrea,  "you 
whom  she  loves  so  much  and  to  whom  she 
never  says  'no,'  you  would  have  helped  us 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          171 


greatly.  How  glad  we  are  to  see  you  again ! 
To-morrow  the  betrothal  takes  place;  you  will 
be  present,  and  your  presence  has  always 
brought  us  good  fortune." 

I  felt  a  cold  shiver  run  over  my  whole  body 
at  the  words  of  these  poor  people.  Something 
told  me  that  their  ill-luck  came  from  me.  I 
burned  and  I  trembled  to  see  Graziella  again. 
I  talked  loud  to  her  relatives,  and  passed  up 
and  down  before  her  door  like  one  who  wished 
to  be  heard  but  would  not  call.  She  was  deaf 
and  dumb  to  all,  and  would  not  appear.  I 
retired  to  my  room  and  went  to  bed.  There 
was  a  calm  in  my  agitated  soul  which  is  produced 
by  the  cessation  of  doubt  and  by  certainty  — 
whatever  it  may  be,  even  of  evil.  I  fell  upon 
the  bed  like  a  dead  weight,  and  without  moving. 
The  weariness  of  mind  and  body  brought  on 
quickly  a  confused  series  of  dreams,  which  was 
followed  by  the  oblivion  of  sleep. 


172  GRAZIELLA  : 


XIII. 

At  two  or  three  different  times  during  the 
night  I  was  half  awakened.  It  was  one  of  those 
stormy  winter  nights  more  rare  in  the  warm 
climates  of  the  sea  coast,  but  darker  and  more 
terrible  than  anywhere  else.  The  lightning 
flashed  uninterruptedly  through  the  window 
blinds  and  shone  upon  the  wall  of  my  room  like 
the  winkings  of  a  great  eye  of  fire.  The  wind 
howled  like  packs  of  famished  dogs.  The  dull 
strokes  of  the  heavy  sea,  dashing  up  against  the 
beach  of  Margellina,  resounded  along  the  shore 

O  o 

as  if  they  were  tossing  up  immense  rocks. 

My  door  rattled  and  trembled  from  the  force 
of  the  wind.  Two  or  three  times  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  it  opened  and  shut  again,  when  I  could 
hear  stifled  cries  and  human  sobs  in  the  plain- 
tive wailing  of  the  storm.  At  one  time  I  thought 
I  heard  the  sound  of  words  and  my  own  name 
pronounced  by  a  voice  of  distress,  calling  upon 
me  for  help.  I  lifted  myself  on  my  elbow,  but 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          173 

heard  nothing  more,  and  believing  that  the  storm 
and  the  fever  of  my  dreams  had  deceived  me,  I 
fell  back  again  into  sleep. 

In  the  morning  the  storm  had  given  away  to  a 
clearer  sun.  I  was  awakened  by  real  groanings 
and  cries  of  despair  that  came  from  the  poor 
fisherman  and  his  wife  who  were  lamenting  at 
the  threshold  of  Graziella's  room.  The  poor 
child  had  gone  away  during  the  night.  She  had 
got  up  and  kissed  the  children,  at  the  same  time 
imposing  silence  upon  them.  She  had  left  on 
her  bed  all  her  best  dresses,  her  ear-rings,  her 
ornaments  and  the  little  money  she  possessed. 

The  father  was  holding  in  his  hand  a  piece  of 
paper,  blotted  with  tears,  which  he  had  found 
pinned  to  the  bed.  There  were  but  five  or  six 
lines,  which,  in  despair,  he  implored  me  to  read 
to  him.  I  took  the  paper,  and  it  contained  only 
the  following  words  written  by  a  hand  trembling 
with  excess  of  fever,  and  which  I  could  scarcely 
read  : 

"I  have  promised  too  much — a  voice  tells  me 


174  GRA7.TELLA: 


that  it  is  more  than  I  can  fulfill.  I  kiss  your 
feet.  Forgive  me.  I  prefer  to  become  a  nun. 
Console  C'ecco  and  the  Monsieur.  .  .  I 
shall  pray  to  God  for  him  and  the  little  ones. 
Give  them  all  I  have.  Return  the  ring  to 
Cecco." 

At  the  reading  of  these  lines,  the  whole  family 
again  burst  into  tears.  The  little  children,  still 
half-naked  and  waiting  for  their  sister  who  had 
left  them  forever,  mingled  their  cries  with  the 
meanings  of  the  old  people  and  ran  through  the 
whole  house  calling  Graziella. 

XIV. 

The  note  fell  from  my  hands.  In  stooping  to 
pick  it  up,  I  saw  just  under  my  door  a  pome- 
granate flower,  which  only  the  Sunday  before  I 
had  admired  as  it  was  fastened  in  the  young 
girl's  hair,  and  the  little  devotional  medal  which 
she  always  carried  in  her  breast  and  which  a  few 
months  before  she  had  hung  upon  my  curtain  as 
I  lay  sick.  I  could  no  longer  doubt  that  my  door 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          175 

had,  indeed,  been  opened  and  shut  during  the 
night ;  that  the  words  and  suppressed  sobs  that  I 
thought  to  hear  and  then  had  taken  for  the  wind 
were  the  parting  sobs  of  the  poor  child.  A  dry 
place  just  outside  the  entrance  to  my  room,  in 
the  midst  of  the  traces  of  rain  over  the  rest  of 
the  terrace,  showed  that  the  young  girl  had  stayed 
there  during  the  storm,  that  she  had  passed  her 
last  hour  in  weeping  and  lamenting,  crouched  or 
kneeling  on  this  stone.  I  picked  up  the  pome- 
granate flower  and  the  medal  and  hid  them  in 
my  breast. 

The  poor  people  in  the  depth  of  their  despair 
were  touched  at  seeing  me  weep  with  them.  I 
did  all  I  could  to  console  them.  They  promised 
that  if  they  ever  found  their  daughter,  they 
would  never  again  speak  to  her  of  Cecco.  Cecco 
himself,  whom  Beppo  had  brought  to  the  house, 
was  the  first  to  sacrifice  himself  to  the  peace  of 
the  family  and  the  return  of  his  cousin.  All 
wretched  as  he  was,  I  could  see  that  he  was  half- 
happy  to  know  that  his  name  was  tenderly  men- 


GRAZIELLA: 


tioned  in  the  note  that  Graziella  left,  and  that  he 
found  a  sort  of  consolation  in  the  parting  words 
that  caused  him  his  wretchedness. 

"  She  thought  of  me  at  any  rate,"  he  said,  as 
he  wiped  his  eyes. 

It  was  then  agreed  between  us  that  we  would 
not  take  a  minute's  rest  until  we  had  found  some 
traces  of  the  fugitive. 

The  father  and  Cecco  went  out  at  once  to  in- 
quire at  the  numerous  convents  in  the  city.  Beppo 
and  the  grandmother  ran  around  among  Graz- 
iella's  young  friends,  to  whom  they  suspected 
she  had  confided  her  thoughts  and  flight.  I,  a 
stranger,  took  upon  myself  the  task  of  visiting 
the  quays,  the  landings  in  Naples  and  the  gates 
of  the  city,  to  question  the  guards,  the  ship-cap- 
tains, the  sailors,  and  to  find  out  whether  any  of 
them  had  seen  a  young  Procidana  going  out  of 
the  city  or  taking  a  boat  that  morning. 

The  morning  was  passed  in  futile  searchings. 
Silent  and  sad,  we  all  returned  to  the  house  to 
tell  each  other  of  what  we  had  done  and  agree 


STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE,          177 


upon  some  plans  for  the  future.  No  one  except 
the  children,  had  the  power  to  carry  a  morsel 
of  bread  to  their  lips.  Andrea  and  his  wife, 
thoroughly  discouraged,  sat  down  at  the  door 
of  Graziella's  room. 

Beppino  and  Cecco  went  out  again  to  wander 
around,  without  hope,  in  the  streets  and  among 
the  churches,  which  are  opened  in  the  evening 
for  the  litany  and  benediction. 

XV. 

I  went  out  alone,  and  after  them,  and  by  mere 
chance  I  sadly  took  the  way  that  led  to  the  grotto 
of  Posilippo.  I  crossed  the  grotto;  I  went  to 
the  border  of  the  sea  that  bathes  the  little  island 
of  Nisida. 

From  the  shore  my  eyes  wandered  toward 
Procida,  which  shone  in  the  distance  like  a 
tortoise-shell  on  the  blue  waves.  My  thoughts 
naturally  reverted  to  that  island  and  to  the  happy 
days  I  had  passed  there  with  Gra/.iella.  An  in- 
spiration guided  me.  I  remembered  that  the 
j  2 


178  CRAZIELLA  : 


young  girl  had  a  friend  there  of  about  her  own 
age,  the  daughter  of  a  poor  peasant  who  lived  in 
one  of  the  neighboring  huts ;  that  this  young 
girl  always  were  a  peculiar  dress  which  differed 
from  that  of  her  companions  ;  that,  one  day, 
when  I  questioned  her  as  to  the  reason  of  this 
difference  in  dress,  she  told  me  that  she  belonged 
to  a  religious  order,  although  she  lived  freely 
with  her  parents,  and  that  hers  was  a  sort  of 
intermediate  state  between  the  cloister  and  home- 
life.  She  pointed  out  to  me  the  church  of  her 
convent.  There  were  many  other  orders  of  the 
same  kind  on  the  island  as  also  in  Ischia  and  in 
the  villages  of  the  country  surrounding  Naples. 

The  thought  came  across  me  immediately  that 
Graziella,  wishing  to  devote  herself  to  God,  would 
perhaps  go  and  confide  in  this  friend  and  ask  her 
to  open  the  gates  of  her  convent.  He  fore  I  had 
given  myself  any  time  for  reflection,  I  was  strid- 
ing with  great  steps  along  the  route  to  Pozzuoli, 
the  town  nearest  to  Procida  where  I  could  take 
a  boat. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          179 

I  arrived  at  Pozzuoli  in  less  than  an  hour.  I 
ran  to  the  port;  I  paid  a  couple  of  boatmen 
double  their  price  to  induce  them  to  take  me  to 
Procida,  notwithstanding  the  high  sea  and  the 
falling  night.  They  launched  their  boat.  I 
seized  a  pair  of  oars  with  them.  We  had  some 
difficulty  in  doubling  Cape  Miseno,  but  two  hours 
afterwards  I  stepped  on  the  island,  and,  alone, 
out  of  breath  with  fatigue,  and  trembling,  sur- 
rounded by  darkness  and  the  winter  winds, — I 
climbed  the  steps  of  the  long  stairway  leading  to 
Andrea's  cabin. 

XVI. 

"  If  Graziella  is  on  the  island,"  I  said  to  my- 
self, "  she  will  have  gone  there  first,  with  the 
natural  instinct  with  which  the  bird  seeks  its  nest 
or  the  child  the  home  of  its  father.  If  she  has 
been  there  and  is  there  no  longer,  there  will  be 
some  traces  of  her  having  passed  through  it. 
These  traces  perhaps  will  lead  me  to  where  she 
is.  But  if  I  find  neither  her  nor  any  traces  of 


I  So  GRAZ1KLLA: 


her,  all  hope  is  lost.  Then  the  doors  of  some  living 
sepulchre  have  closed  forever  on  her  youth." 

Troubled  by  this  terrible  thought,  I  reached 
the  very  last  step.  I  kne\v  the  cleft  in  the  rock 
in  which  the  old  mother,  in  leaving,  had  hidden 
the  key  of  the  house.  I  pushed  aside  the  ivy 
and  plunged  in  my  hand.  My  fingers  felt  around 
for  the  key,  all  drasvn  up  from  fear  that  they 
would  touch  the  cold  iron  which  would  deprive 
me  of  all  hope. 

The  key  was  not  there.  Suppressing  an  outcry 
of  joy,  I  entered  the  yard  with  hushed  steps. 
The  door  and  the  shutters  were  closed,  but  a 
dim  light  escaped  through  the  openings  of  the 
blinds,  and,  floating  about  on  the  fig-leaves,  be- 
trayed a  lighted  lamp  inside.  Who  could  have 
found  the  key,  opened  the  door  and  lighted  the 
lamp  except  this  child  of  the  hou.-ie  ?  I  no 
longer  doubted  that  Gra/iella  was  a  few  feet  from 
me,  and  I  fell  on  my  knees  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stairway  leading  into  the  house  to  thank  the 
ancrel  that  had  brought  me  to  her. 


A    STOXY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          181 

XVII. 

No  sound  came  from  the  house.  I  leaned  my 
ear  against  the  door-sill ;  I  thought  I  could  hear 
a  feeble  noise  of  breathing  and  sobbing  come 
from  within  the  second  room.  I  shook  the  door 
softly  as  it  might  have  been  shaken  on  its  hinges 
by  the  force  of  the  wind,  in  order  to  call  Graz- 
iella's  attention  gradually,  and  that  no  sudden 
and  unexpected  sound  of  a  human  voice  might 
frighten  her  and  perhaps  kill  her  by  calling. 
The  breathing  was  hushed.  Then  I  called  Graz- 
iella  softly,  with  the  calmest  and  tenderest  tone 
that  I  could  find  in  my  heart.  A  feeble  cry  came 
from  the  depths  of  the  house  in  answer. 

I  called  again,  conjuring  her  to  open  to  her 
friend — her  brother — who  came  alone  during  the 
night  and  in  the  tempest,  guided  by  his  good 
angel,  to  find  her  and  rescue  her  from  her  despair, 
to  bring  her  the  forgiveness  of  her  family,  his 
own,  and  to  take  her  back  to  her  duty,  to  her 
happiness,  to  her  poor  grandmother  and  to  her 
dear  little  children. 


1 82  GRAZIELLA: 


"My  God!  it  is  he!  it  is  my  name!  It  is 
his  voice!  "  she  cried. 

I  called  again,  more  tenderly,  "  Graziellina,'' — 
a  name  of  endearment  which  I  often  used  when 
we  were  laughing  and  chatting  together. 

"  It  is  indeed  he,"  she  said  again.  "  I  am  not 
deceived;  my  God!  it  is  he  !  " 

Then  I  heard  her  raise  herself  upon  the  dry 
leaves  that  rustled  under  every  movement,  make 
one  step  toward  the  door  and  fall  back  again, 
overcome  by  weakness  or  emotion,  and  unable 
to  advance  any  further. 

XVIII. 

I  hesitated  no  longer.  I  leaned  my  shoulder 
against  the  old  door  and  pushed  it  with  all  the 
force  that  my  impatience  and  uneasiness  gave 
me;  the  lock  yielded  witli  but  little  resistance 
and  I  was  thrown  forward  into  the  house. 

The  little  lamp,  which  Gra.-.iella  had  lighted 
before  the  Madonna,  afforded  but  a  feeble  light. 
I  ran  into  the  next  room,  whence  I  had  heard 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          183 

the  voice  and  fall,  and  where  I  believed  that  she 
had  fainted.  But  she  had  not;  her  weakness 
had  betrayed  her  effort;  she  had  fallen  back  on 
the  heap  of  dry  heather  which  served  as  her 
bed,  and  there  she  lay,  her  hands  joined  together 
as  she  looked  at  me.  Her  eyes,  sparkling  with 
fever,  widely  opened  with  surprise  and  languid 
with  love,  burned  fixedly  like  two  stars,  whose 
beams  fall  from  heaven  and  which  seem  to  look 
down  directly  at  you. 

Her  head,  which  she  tried  to  raise,  fell  back 
upon  the  leaves  from  weakness,  and  was  so 
thrown  over  that  it  seemed  as  though  her  neck 
were  broken.  She  was  pale  as  death,  except 
that  her  cheek-bones  were  tinged  with  the  color 
of  fresh  roses.  Her  beautiful  skin  was  spotted 
with  tears  in  which  the  dust  had  settled.  Her 
black  dress  was  confused  with  the  brown  color 
of  the  leaves  spread  over  the  ground  upon  which 
she  was  lying.  Her  naked  feet,  white  as  marble, 
reached  beyond  the  leaves  and  lay  upon  the 
stone.  Cold  chills  ran  through  all  her  limbs 


184  GRAZIELLA  : 

and  muxle  her  teeth  chatter  like  castanets  in  the 
hands  of  a  child.  The  red  handkerchief  that 
usually  held  up  the  long  black  tresses  of  her 
beautiful  hair  was  unfastened  and  drawn  like  a 
half-veil  over  her  forehead  and  down  to  her 
eyebrows.  I  could  see  that  she  had  used  it  to 
cover  her  face  and  tears,  as  if  in  the  anticipated 
immobility  of  a  shroud,  and  that  she  had  only 
lifted  it  when  she  heard  my  voice,  and  raised 
herself  to  come  and  open  the  door. 


I  threw  myself  down  at  her  side  and  on  my 
knees;  I  took  both  her  icy  hands  in  mine;  I 
carried  them  to  my  lips  to  warm  them  with  my 
breath,  and  tears  fell  down  from  my  eyes  upon 
them.  I  understood  from  the  nervous  pressure 
of  her  fingers  that  she  felt  this  rain  from  the 
heart  and  that  she  was  grateful  for  it.  I  took 
off  my  sailor's  cloak,  threw  it  over  her  bare  feet, 
and  wrapped  them  in  its  woolen  folds. 

She   submitted    to   all    this,  following  me  only 


A    STORY  OF  I  TALI  A  iV  LOVE.          185 

with  her  eyes,  that  had  an  expression  of  happy 
delirium,  but  without  being  able  to  help  me  by 
a  movement,  as  an  infant  allows  itself  to  be 
bundled  together  and  put  in  its  cradle.  I  then 
got  up  and  threw  some  dry  branches  on  the  fire- 
place in  the  front  room,  in  order  to  warm  the 
air;  I  lighted  them  from  the  flame  of  the  lamp 
and  then  returned  to  sit  down  on  the  floor  by 
the  bed  of  leaves. 

"  How  well  I  feel !  "  she  said  to  me,  speaking 
very  softly  in  a  sweet,  even,  monotonous  tone, 
as  if  her  breast  had  lost  at  once  all  vibration 
and  accent,  and  had  retained  only  a  single  tone 
of  voice.  "I  tried  in  vain  to  conceal  it  from 
myself.  I  tried  in  vain  to  conceal  it  from  you. 
I  can  die  willingly,  but  I  can  love  no  other  than 
you.  They  wished  me  to  take  a  husband — • 
you  are  already  the  husband  of  my  soul.  I  will 
give  myself  to  no  other  on  earth,  for  I  have 
given  myself  to  you  in  secret.  You  on  earth, 
and  God  in  Heaven!  Such  was  the  vow  I  made 
when  I  first  discovered  that  my  heart  was  sick 


1 86  GRAZIELLA  : 


for  you.  I  know  that  I  am  nothing  but  a  poor 
girl,  unworthy  to  touch  your  feet  even  in 
thought;  and  I  have  never  asked  you  to  love 
me.  I  shall  never  ask  whether  you  love  me. 
But  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you  !  " 

And  her  whole  soul  seemed  fixed  on  these 
three  words. 

"And  now  despise  me,  laugh  at  me,  trample 
me  under  your  feet ;  mock  me,  if  you  will,  as 
you  would  a  mad  woman  who  imagines  herself 
a  queen  in  her  rags  and  tatters.  Give  me  over 
to  the  ridicule  of  the  world,  and  I  will  say  to  it: 
'  Yes,  I  love  him,  and  if  you  had  been  in  my 
place  you  would  have  loved  him  as  I  have. 
You  would  have  died  or  you  would  have  loved 
him." 


I  had  held  my  eyes  downcast,  not  daring  to 
raise  them  to  hers  fur  fear  that  my  glance  would 
say  too  much  or  too  little  for  such  delirium.  At 
these  words,  however,  I  raised  my  forehead 


A    STOXY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          187 

from  her  hands  and  stammered  out  a  few  inco- 
herent sentences. 

But  she  put  her  finger  on  my  lips. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  all,"  she  continued;  "I  am 
contented  now.  I  no  longer  doubt.  God  has 
explained  himself.  Listen:  Yesterday,  when  I 
fled  from  the  house,  after  having  passed  the 
whole  night  in  struggles  and  weeping  at  your 
door,  and  when  I  arrived  here  through  all  the 
storm,  I  came  believing  I  should  never  see  you 
again,  and  was  like  a  dead  woman  walking  into 
her  own  grave.  I  was  to  enter  the  convent  to- 
morrow at  daybreak.  It  was  night  when  I 
arrived  on  the  island,  and  when  I  went  to  knock 
at  the  gates  of  the  convent,  it  was  too  late  and 
they  were  closed  against  me.  I  was  refused 
admittance.  I  came  here  to  pass  the  night  and 
to  kiss  the  walls  of  my  father's  house  before 
entering  the  house  of  God  and  the  tomb  of  my 
heart.  I  wrote  a  note,  which  I  sent  to  a  friend 
by  a  child,  asking  her  to  come  here  for  me  in 
the  morning.  I  took  the  key.  I  lighted  the 


1 88  G  RAZIEL  LA: 


little  lamp  before  the  Madonna.  I  knelt  down 
and  made  a  vo\v,  a  last  vo\v, — a  vow  of  hope  in 
my  very  despair, — fur  you  will  kno\v,  if  you  ever 
love,  that  there  remains  always  a  last  spark  at 
the  bottom  of  the  soul,  even  when  one  believes 
all  is  extinguished. 

"  '  Holy  Protectress,'  I  said  to  her,  '  send  me 
some  sign  of  my  vocation  to  assure  me  that 
love  is  not  deceiving  me,  and  that  I  really 
give  to  God  a  life  that  ought  to  belong  to  him 
alone. 

"  '  My  last  night  among  the  living  is  already 
begun.  No  one  knows  where  I  pass  it.  To- 
morrow, perhaps,  they  will  come  here  for  me. 
when  I  shall  have  gone.  If  my  friend  for  whom 
I  have  sent  comes  first,  let  it  be  a  sign  that  I 
must  accomplish  my  design,  and  I  will  go  with 
her  forever  to  the  convent. 

u  '  But  if  he  comes  before  her  —  he,  guided  by 
my  good  angel,  comes  to  find  me  and  take  me 
back  from  the  confines  of  my  other  life,  oh!  then 
let  that  be  a  sign  that  you  do  not  want  me,  and 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          189 

that  I  shall  return  with  him  to  love  him  all  the 
rest  of  my  days! 

"  '  And  let  it  be  he  that  shall  come,'  I  added. 
'  Do  this  one  miracle  more,  if  it  is  your  wish  and 
that  of  God's.  To  obtain  this  favor  I  will  make 
you  a  gift,  the  only  one  that  I,  who  have  noth- 
ing, caii  make.  Here  is  my  hair,  my  poor,  long 
hair,  which  he  loves,  and  which  he  used  to  undo 
so  often  in  sport  to  see  it  toss  about  in  the  wind 
on  my  shoulders.  Take  it!  I  give  it  to  you.  I 
will  cut  it  off  myself  to  prove  to  you  I  do  not 
keep  back  any,  and  that  my  hair  now  shall  be 
submitted  to  the  shears  that  will  cut  it  in  the 
morning,  if  I  am  destined  to  separate  myself 
from  the  world.' '' 

At  these  words  she  lifted  with  her  left  hand 
the  silk  handkerchief  that  covered  her  head,  and 
with  the  other  taking  the  long  shorn  locks  of 

O  O 

hair  that  had  lain  at  her  side  on  the  bed  of 
leaves,  she  unrolled  it  and  showed  it  to  me. 

"The  Madonna  has  done  the  miracle!"  she 
exclaimed  in  louder  accents  of  joy.  "  She  has 


190  GRAZIEI.LA: 


sent  you  ;  I  will  go  with  you  where  you  will. 
My  hair  belongs  to  her;  my  life  is  yours." 

I  threw  myself  upon  the  beautiful  black 
tresses  of  hair  which  felt  in  my  hands  like  a 
dead  branch  cut  from  a  tree.  I  covered  them 
with  mute  kisses,  I  pressed  them  to  my  heart,  I 
bathed  them  in  tears  as  if  they  had  been  a  part 
of  her  whom  I  was  burying  dead  in  the  ground. 

*  O  O 

Then  turning  my  eyes  upon  her,  I  saw  her 
charming  head,  which  she  raised,  despoiled  yet 
adorned  and  embellished  by  the  sacrifice,  radi- 
ating with  happiness  and  love  amid  the  black 
and  uneven  locks  of  hair  that  had  been  torn 
rather  than  cut  by  the  shears.  She  appeared  to 
me  like  a  mutilated  statue  of  Youth,  whose  grace 
and  beauty  had  been  enhanced  by  the  very  rav- 
ages of  time,  adding  pity  to  admiration.  This 
profanation  of  herself,  this  suicide  of  her  beauty 
for  love  of  me,  sent  a  shock  to  my  heart  which 
stunned  my  whole  being,  and  I  fell  with  my 
head  at  her  feet.  I  surmised  what  it  was  to 
love,  and  I  took  this  presentiment  for  love  itself. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVI-:.          191 

XXI. 

Alas  !  it  was  not  love  in  all  its  fullness,  it  was 
only  the  shadow  of  love  in  me  ;  but  I  was  still 
too  young  and  too  ingenuous  not  to  deceive  my- 
self by  it.  I  thought  that  I  adored  her  as  so 
much  innocence,  beauty  and  love  deserved  to 
be  adored  by  a  lover.  I  told  her  so  in  that  sin- 
cere tone  which  emotion  produces,  and  with  that 
pent-up  passion  brought  on  by  solitude,  night, 
despair  and  tears.  She  believed  it  because  she 
needed  to  believe  it  to  live,  and  because  she 
had  passion  enough  in  her  own  soul  to  cover  up 
the  insufficiency  of  a  thousand  other  hearts. 

The  whole  night  passed  in  this  confident,  but 
ever  artless  and  pure,  communion  of  two  beings 
who  innocently  reveal  to  each  other  their  love, 
and  wish  the  night  and  silence  were  eternal  that 
nothing  might  come  between  their  lips  and 
hearts.  Her  piety  and  my  timid  reserve,  the 
very  affection  of  our  souls,  kept  all  danger  dis- 
tant from  us.  The  veil  of  our  tears  was  upon 


r 92  CRAZir.I.LA  : 

us.  There  is  nothing  so  far  removed  from  sen- 
suality as  true  affection.  To  abuse  such  an 
intimacy  would  have  been  to  profane  t\vo  souls. 
I  held  both  her  hands  in  mine  and  I  felt  the 
warmth  of  life  returning  to  them.  I  brought 
fresh  water  in  the  palm  of  my  hand  for  her  to 
drink,  and  to  bathe  her  temples  and  cheeks.  I 
kept  up  the  fire  by  throwing  on  some  more 
branches  ;  then  I  returned  and  sat  down  on  a 
stone  near  the  myrtle  branches  on  which  her 
head  rested,  to  listen  again  and  again  to  the 
sweet  confessions  of  her  love:  how  it  had  sprung 
into  life  without  her  knowing  it,  in  the  form  of  a 
sister's  pure  and  sweet  friendship;  how  she  was 
at  first  alarmed  by  it  and  afterwards  re-assured; 
by  what  sign  she  finally  knew  that  she  loved  me; 
how  many  secret  marks  of  preference  she  had 
given  me  of  which  I  had  never  thought;  at  what 
time  she  believed  that  she  had  betrayed  her  love 
to  me;  when,  again,  she  thought  that  I  returned 
it;  the  hours,  the  gestures,  the  smiles,  the  half- 
spoken  words  that  were  recalled,  the  involuntary 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          193 

revelations  and  clouds  of  our  features  during  the 
last  six  months.  Her  memory  retained  every- 
thing, as  the  mountain  grass  of  the  South  which 
has  caught  fire  in  the  Summer  retains  the  im- 
print in  all  places  where  the  flames  have  passed. 

XXII. 

To  these  confessions  she  added  the  mysterious 
superstitions  of  love,  which  give  a  meaning  and 
a  value  to  the  most  insignificant  circumstances. 
One  by  one  she  raised  before  me,  so  to  speak,  all 
the  veils  that  covered  her  soul.  She  showed  her- 
self as  to  God,  in  all  the  nakedness  of  her  candor, 
childhood  and  trust.  There  is  but  one  moment 
in  life  when  the  soul  empties  itself  into  another 
soul,  with  the  never-ceasing  murmur  of  the  lips 
which  are  not  equal  to  the  loving  outpourings  of 
the  heart,  and  which  finish  only  by  stammering 
inarticulate  and  confused  sounds  like  the  kisses 
of  a  babe  that  is  falling  asleep. 

I  did  not  cease  to  listen,  to  tremble  and  to  feel 
the  chills  run  through  me  alternately.  Although 


194  GRAZIELLA: 


my  heart  was  yet  too  young  and  too  light,  neither 
ripe  enough  nor  fertile  enough  to  produce  of  it- 
self such  burning  and  divine  emotions,  yet  these 
emotions,  falling  from  another  heart  into  mine, 
made  an  impression  so  novel  and  so  delicious 
that  in  feeling  them  I  believed  that  I  experienced 
them  myself.  Fatal  error  !  I  was  the  mirror  and 
she  was  the  fire.  In  reflecting  that  fire,  I  be- 
lieved I  produced  it.  No  matter.  This  radiance 
reflected  from  one  to  the  other  seemed  to  belong 
to  us  both,  and  to  enfold  us  in  the  same  atmos- 
phere of  love. 

XXIII. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  the  long  winter  night 
passed.  But  that  night,  for  Graziella  and  for 
me,  had  only  the  duration  of  the  first  sigh  of 
love.  It  seemed  to  us,  when  day  appeared,  that 
it  came  to  break  in  upon  a  sentence  that  was 
scarcely  begun. 

Yet  the  sun  was  already  high  in  the  heavens 
before  its  rays  entered  the  closed  blinds  and 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          195 

paled  the  light  of  the  lamp.  At  the  very 
moment  I  opened  the  door,  I  saw  the  whole 
of  the  old  fisherman's  family  running  up  the 
stairway. 

The  young  nun  of  Procida,  Graziella's  friend, 
to  whom  she  had  sent  the  message  of  the  even- 
ing before,  confiding  her  intention  of  entering  the 
convent  on  the  morrow,  suspected  that  the  cause 
was  some  despair  of  the  heart,  and  had  sent, 
during  the  night,  one  of  her  brothers  to  Naples 
to  inform  the  family  of  Graziella's  resolution. 
Knowing  where  to  find  their  child,  they  came  in 
haste,  all  joyous  and  repentant,  to  stop  her  at  the 
very  confines  of  despair,  and  bring  her  back 
with  them  free  and  forgiven. 

The  grandmother  fell  on  her  knees  near  the 
bed,  and  held  out  in  her  arms  the  two  little 
children,  whom  they  had  brought  to  soften  Graz- 
iella's heart,  covering  her  with  their  bodies  as  if 
with  a  shield  against  her  reproaches.  The 
children,  weeping  and  screaming,  jumped  into 
their  sister's  arms.  In  raising  herself  to  caress 


196  GRAZIELLA: 


them  and  to  kiss  her  grandmother,  Graziella 
dropped  the  handkerchief  from  her  head  and  ex- 
posed her  head  shorn  of  its  hair.  They  all  shud- 
dered at  the  sight  of  this  outrage  on  her  beauty, 
the  meaning  of  which  they  understood  too  well, 
and  burst  out  again  into  sobs  which  filled  the 
house.  The  nun,  who  had  just  come  in,  brought 
them  all  consolation.  She  picked  up  the  tresses 
that  had  been  cut  from  Graziella' s  head,  touched 
them  to  the  image  of  the  Madonna,  then 
wrapped  them  carefully  in  a  white  silk  handker- 
chief, and  threw  them  into  the  grandmother's  lap. 
"Keep  them,"  said  she,  "  to  show  her  from 
time  to  time,  in  her  happiness  or  in  her  sorrow, 
and  to  remind  her  when  she  belongs  to  him  whom 
she  loves,  that  the  first  fruits  of  her  heart  should 
always  be  given  to  God,  as  these  first  offerings 
of  her  beauty  were  given  to  him." 

XXIV. 

That  afternoon  we  all  went  back  to  Naples  to- 
gether.    The  zeal  which  I  had  shown  in  finding 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          197 

and  saving  Graziella  in  this  case  only  served  to 
increase  the  affection  which  the  old  fisherman 
and  his  wife  entertained  for  me.  Neither  of  them 
suspected  the  nature  of  my  interest  in  her,  or 
of  her  attachment  for  me.  They  believed  that 
all  her  repugnance  for  Cecco  arose  from  his  de- 
formity. They  hoped  to  overcome  this  repug- 
nance by  time  and  reason.  They  promised  Graz- 
iella that  they  would  not  press  her  to  the  mar- 
riage. Cecco  himself  besought  his  father  not  to 
speak  of  it  again,  and  in  his  humility  of  looks 
and  bearing  he  begged  his  cousin's  pardon 
that  he  had  been  the  cause  of  all  her  trouble. 
And  peace  once  more  came  into  the  humble 
house. 

XXV. 

There  was  now  nothing  to  cast  a  single  shadow 
over  Graziella's  face  or  our  happiness,  unless  it 
was  the  thought  that  this  happiness  must  sooner 
or  later  be  broken  off  by  my  return  to  my  native 
country.  When  any  one  mentioned  the  name  of 


198  GRAZIELLA: 


France,  the  poor  girl  turned  as  pale  as  if  she 
had  seen  the  ghost  of  death. 

One  day,  when  I  went  into  my  room,  I  found 
my  city  clothes  torn  into  pieces  and  scattered 
about  the  floor. 

"O  forgive  me!"  cried  Graziella,  as  she  fell  on 
her  knees  at  my  feet,  and  turned  her  troubled 
face  up  to  mine.  "  I  did  it  all,  but  do  not  scold 
me.  Every  thing  that  reminds  me  that  some  day 
you  are  going  to  throw  off  your  sailor's  dress  gives 
me  too  much  pain!  It  seems  to  me  as  though 
you  are  tearing  out  your  heart  of  to-day  to  make 
place  for  another  when  you  put  on  the  clothes 
that  you  used  to  wear." 

With  the  exception  of  such  little  outbursts  as 
these,  which  flashed  from  the  warmth  of  her 
affection  and  which  were  quieted  by  our  tears, 
three  months  passed  in  an  imaginary  bliss  which 
the  slightest  touch  of  reality  would  have  dissi- 
pated. Our  Eden  rested  upon  a  cloud. 

And  this  was  the  way  I  learned  to  love  — 
from  the  tear  of  a  child's  eye. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          199 

XXVI. 

How  happy  were  we  together  when  we  could 
forget  entirely  that  there  was  any  other  world 
outside  of  us,  any  other  world  but  that  little 
house  at  the  declivity  of  Mount  Posilippo;  that 
terrace  in  the  sun  ;  that  little  room  in  which  we 
worked  and  played  together  half  the  day  ;  that 
boat  lying  in  its  bed  of  sand  on  the  beach,  and 
that  beautiful  sea,  whose  soft  and  melodious 
breezes  brought  to  us  the  freshness  and  music 
of  its  waters. 

But,  alas  !  there  were  moments  when  we  were 
conscious  that  the  world  did  not  stop  there,  and 
that,  one  day,  it  would  raise  itself  and  find  us  no 
longer  together  under  the  rays  of  the  same  sun 
or  moon. 

I  am  wrong  in  accusing  my  heart  so  much  for 
its  dryness  by  comparing  it  with  what  it  has  felt 
since.  In  reality,  I  began  to  love  Graziella  a 
thousand  times  better  than  I  admitted  to  myself. 
If  I  did  not  love  her  so  much,  why  should  the 


GRA7JF.U.A 


traces,  which  have  remained  in  my  soul  during 
my  whole  life,  be  so  deep  and  doleful,  and  win- 
should  I  cherish  her  memory  so  dearly  and 
regretfully  ?  Her  likeness  would  not  be  so  con- 
stantly before  me,  in  all  its  beauty,  if  this  had 
not  been  love.  My  heart  was  still  of  sand,  yet 
this  sea-flower  grew  upon  it  for  more  than  one 
season,  like  those  wonderful  lilies  that  live  and 
prosper  on  the  beach  of  Ischia. 

XXVII. 

And  what  eye  so  void  of  light,  what  heart  so 
still-born  as  not  to  have  loved  her?  Her  beauty 
seemed  to  develop  with  her  love  from  night  to 
morning.  She  did  not  grow  much  larger,  but 
her  natural  grace  became  more  refined — grace 
of  the  child  yesterday,  to-day  the  grace  of  the  wo- 
man. Her  slight  form  was  changed  into  a  some- 
what rounder  and  sweeter  one  of  adolescence. 
Her  pretty  bare  feet  no  longer  stole  softly  over  the 
trodden  ground,  but  were  dragged  along  with  that 
indolence  and  languor  which  the  weight  of  love's 


A    STOfiY  OF  I  TALI  AX  LOVE.          201 

first  thoughts  seems  to  impress  upon  a  woman's 
whole  being. 

Her  hair  grew  thick  and  strong  with  the  vigor 
of  sea -plants  under  the  warm  waves  of  spring- 
time. I  often  amused  myself  by  measuring  its 
growth  in  stretching  the  locks,  rolled  around  my 
fingers,  over  the  laced  waist  of  her  green  sack. 
At  the  same  time  that  her  skin  whitened,  it  be- 
came tinted  with  the  color  of  the  rose-powder 
from  the  coral  which  always  covered  the  ends  of 
her  fingers.  Her  eyes  grew  larger  and  fuller 
from  day  to  day,  as  if  to  embrace  a  new  horizon 
that  had  suddenly  appeared  before  her.  It  was 
that  wonder  of  life  —  Galatea  feeling  her  first 
palpitation  under  the  marble.  She  assumed  un- 
consciously before  me  a  reserve  and  a  modesty 
in  her  looks,  actions  and  bearing  which  she  had 
never  shown  toward  me  before.  And  I  noticed 
it,  and  I  myself  was  all  silent  and  trembling 
when  near  her.  One  would  have  said  that  we 
were  two  criminals,  while  we  were  but  uvo  happy 
children, 


202  GRAZIF.LLA  : 


Yet  for  some  time  back  a  deep  melancholy  was 
hidden  or  revealed  itself  under  all  this  happi- 
ness. We  did  not  know  why  it  was  so,  but  fate 
knew  it.  It  was  the  feeling  of  the  short  time 
left  for  us  to  be  together. 

XXVIII. 

It  often  happened  that  Graziella,  instead  of 
going  gladly  to  her  work,  after  having  dressed 
and  combed  her  little  brothers,  would  remain 
seated  at  the  foot  of  the  wall  which  supported 
the  terrace,  in  the  shade  of  the  great  leaves  of 
a  fig-tree  that  reached  from  the  ground  to  the 
very  top  of  the  wall.  There  she  would  sit 
motionless,  with  a  vacant  stare  in  her  eyes,  for 
whole  hours  at  a  time.  When  her  grandmother 
would  ask  her  if  she  were  sick,  she  would 
answer  that  she  was  not  sick,  but  that  she  was 
already  tired  out  before  beginning  her  work.  At 
such  a  time  she  did  not  like  to  be  questioned. 
She  turned  her  face  from  every  one  except  me, 
and  she  would  look  at  me  a  long  time  without 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          203 

saying  a  word.  At  times  her  lips  moved  as  if 
she  had  been  speaking,  but  she  muttered  words 
that  no  one  heard.  I  could  see  rapid  changes  of 
color,  from  white  to  red,  and  from  red  to  white 
again,  suffuse  her  cheeks  and  make  the  skin 
appear  like  a  placid,  sleeping  sheet  of  water 
ruffled  by  the  first  breath  of  the  morning  wind. 
But  when  I  sat  down  by  her  side  and  took  her 
hand  in  mine,  and  gently  drew  the  feathers  of 
my  quill-pen  or  a  sprig  of  rosemary  over  her 
closed  eye-lids,  she  would  forget  everything  and 
begin  to  laugh  and  talk  with  me  as  of  old.  But 
she  seemed  sad  after  playing  and  laughing. 

I  sometimes  said  to  her : 

"  Graziella,  what  is  it  that  you  look  at  for  so 
many  hours  together  over  there,  so  far  out  in  the 
sea?  Can  you  see  anything  there  that  we  can 
not  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  France  beyond  those  mountains  of  ice," 
she  would  answer  me. 

"And  what  do  you  find  so  fascinating  in 
France  ?  "  I  asked  auain. 


204  GRAZIELLA  : 


"  I  see  some  one  that  resembles  you ;  some 
one  that  walks,  and  walks,  an-cl  walks  on  a  long 
white  road  that  has  no  end.  lie  walks  always, 
always  straight  ahead,  and  never  turning  round. 
I  wait  for  hours,  hoping  always  that  he  may  turn 
to  retrace  his  steps,  but  he  never  does,  he  never 
does." 

And  then  she  would  hide  her  face  in  her  apron, 
and  all  the  endearing  names  I  could  call  her 
would  not  induce  her  to  raise  her  head. 

I  would  then  go  sadly  into  my  own  room.  I 
would  try  to  read  in  order  to  divert  my  thoughts, 
but  I  always  saw  Graziella's  beautiful  face  be- 
tween my  eyes  and  the  page  before  me.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  words  took  a  voice,  and  sobbed  like 
our  two  hearts.  It  often  ended  in  my  weeping 
all  alone;  but  I  was  ashamed  of  my  low  spirits, 
and  never  told  Gra/.iella  that  I  had  wept.  1  was 
wrong.  One  such  tear  of  mine  would  have 
brought  so  much  joy  to  her  heart  ! 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          205 

XXIX. 

I  remember  well  the  scene  that  gave  her  more 
heart-pain  than  all  the  rest ;  from  which,  indeed, 
she  never  recovered  fully. 

Sometime  before  this  she  had  formed  an  inti- 
macy with  two  or  three  young  girls  of  about  her 
own  age.  These  young  girls  lived  in  one  of  the 
little  houses  in  the  adjoining  gardens.  They 
ironed  or  repaired  the  clothes  of  some  young 
French  girls  who  were  attending  a  boarding 
school  in  the  neighborhood.  The  king  Murat 
had  founded  this  institution  at  Naples  for  the 
daughters  of  his  ministers  and  generals.  These 
young  Procidane  often  talked  with  Graziella  as 
she  looked  over  the  terrace  wall  while  they 
worked  below.  They  showed  her  the  beautiful 
lace,  the  beautiful  silks,  the  beautiful  hats,  the 
beautiful  slices,  the  beautiful  ribbons  and  the 
beautiful  shawls  which  they  brought  from  the 
convent  or  carried  back  to  the  young  ladies. 
There  were  incessant  outcries  of  surprise  and 
admiration. 


206  GRAZIELLA : 

At  times  these  sewing  girls  would  come  for 
Graziella  to  take  her  to  mass  or  to  hear  the  music 
at  vespers  in  the  little  chapel  at  Posilippo.  At 
twilight  I  would  go  to  meet  them,  when  I  heard 
the  bells  giving  warning  of  the  priest's  benedic- 
tion. As  we  returned  we  would  loiter  and  play 
on  the  beach,  following  the  traces  left  by  the 
retreating  wave,  and  running  before  the  surge 
as  it  came  toward  our  feet  with  the  white  cap  of 
foam. 

How  handsome  Graziella  was  at  such  a  time! 
Fearing  to  wet  her  shining  slippers,  spangled 
with  gold,  she  would  run  toward  me  with  out- 
stretched arms,  as  if  to  take  refuge  in  my  heart 
against  the  amorous  wave  that  sought  to  clasp 
her,  or  at  least  to  kiss  her  little  feet. 

XXX. 

I  noticed  for  some  time  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  Graziella's  thoughts  which  she  conceal- 
ed from  me.  She  had  secret  interviews  with,  her 
young  friends,  the  sewing  girls.  It  was  like  a 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          207 

little  conspiracy  into  the  secrets  of  which  I  was 
not  admitted. 

One  evening  I  was  reading  in  my  room  by  the 
feeble  light  of  my  little  earthen  lamp.  My  door 
which  led  out  upon  the  terrace  was  open  to 
admit  the  breeze  from  the  sea.  I  heard  a 
confused  noise;  long  whisperings  of  young  girls; 
suppressed  laughter;  impatient  exclamations; 
repeated  sounds  of  voices  interrupted  by  long 
intervals  of  silence,  which  came  from  the  room 
where  Graziella  and  the  children  slept.  At  first 
I  paid  but  little  attention  to  it. 

Yet  the  very  efforts  that  were  made  to  hush 
the  whisperings  and  the  mystery  indicated  by 
such  efforts  finally  excited  my  curiosity.  I  laid 
down  my  book;  I  took  my  earthen  lamp  in  my 
left  hand,  and  with  my  right  hand  protected  the 
flame  from  the  wind  that  it  might  not  be  ex- 
tinguished. I  crossed  the  terrace  with  hushed 
steps,  gliding  along  the  flagstones.  I  leaned  my 
ear  against  Graziella's  door.  I  heard  the  noise 
of  feet  coming  and  going  in  the  room,  the 


2oS  GRA7.IFJ.LA  : 


rustling  of  silks  folding  and  unfolding,  the 
sharp  click  of  thimbles,  needles  and  scissors, 
of  women  adjusting  ribbons  and  pinning  capes, 
and  the  renewed  buzzing  and  murmuring  of 
voices, —  such  sounds  as  I  had  often  heard  at 
home  when  my  sisters  were  dressing  for  a  ball. 

I  knew  that  there  was  no  festival  nor  cele- 
bration at  Posilippo  on  the  following  day. 
Graziella  had  never  dreamed  of  enhancing  her 
beauty  by  the  arts  of  the  toilette.  Indeed  there 
was  not  even  a  looking-glass  in  her  room.  She 
never  looked  at  herself  except  in  the  clear  water 
of  the  well,  or  rather  she  never  looked  at  herself 
except  in  my  eyes. 

My  curiosity  could  no  longer  resist  this  mys- 
tery. I  pushed  the  door  with  my  knee.  Tt 
yielded.  I  appeared,  my  lamp  in  my  hand, 
upon  the  threshold. 

The  young  sewing-girls  cried  and  flew  away, 
like  frightened  birds,  or  as  if  they  had  been  dis- 
covered in  the  commission  of  some  criminal  act, 
to  the  furtherest  corners  of  the  room.  Thev  still 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          209 

held  in  their  hands  the  different  articles  that 
convicted  them, —  one  the  thread,  another  the 
scissors,  this  one  flowers  and  that  one  ribbons. 
But  Graziella,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  upon  a  little  wooden  stool,  and  as  if 
turned  into  stone  by  an  unexpected  apparition, 
could  not  escape.  Her  cheeks  were  red  as  a 
pomegranate.  She  lowered  her  eyes,  she  could 
not  look  at  me,  she  could  hardly  breathe. 
Every  one  was  silent,  waiting  to  hear  what  I 
would  say.  But  I  said  nothing;  I  was  overcome 
with  surprise  and  stood  in  mute  contemplation 
of  the  scene  before  me. 

Graziella  had  taken  off  her  garments  of  heavy 
wool;  the  sack  laced  behind  after  the  fashion  of 
Procida,  and  open  in  front,  that  the  maiden  may 
breathe  freely  and  that  the  mother  may  give  the 
child  its  nourishment;  her  slippers  with  the 
golden  spangles  and  wooden  heels,  which  usually 
encased  her  naked  feet ;  the  long  pins  with  their 
large  brass  heads,  around  which  her  hair  was 
rolled,  as  a  sail  is  wrapped  about  a  yard ;  and 
'4 


GRA7.IELLA  : 


her  ear-rings,  as  big  as  bracelets,  which  were 
thrown  upon  the  bed  with  her  dress. 

In  place  of  this  picturesque  Grecian  costume, 
which  is  becoming  to  poverty  as  well  as  riches, 
and  which  gives,  in  the  skirt  falling  just  below 
the  knee,  in  the  sloping  of  the  corsage  and  in 
the  flowing  sleeves,  a  freedom  to  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  body,  Graziella's  young  friends,  at 
her  own  request,  had  dressed  her  in  the  garments 
and  ornaments  of  a  French  girl  of  about  her 
size  who  was  living  at  the  convent.  She  had 
on  a  dress  of  watered  silk,  a  rose-colored  belt, 
a  white  neckerchief,  artificial  flowers  in  her  hair, 
blue  satin  slippers  and  silk  stockings  that  ex- 
posed a  flesh  color  on  her  well-rounded  ankles. 

She  stood  in  this  costume  in  which  I  had 
surprised  her,  as  confused  as  if  she  had  been 
surprised  in  nakedness  by  a  man.  I  looked  at 
her  without  being  able  to  take  my  eyes  from 
her,  but  without  expressing  by  word,  action  or 
smile  the  feeling  which  I  experienced  at  seeing 
her  in  this  disguise.  There  was  a  tear  in  mv 


A    STOXY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          211 

heart.  I  had  understood  instantly  and  too  well 
the  young  girl's  thought.  Ashamed  of  the  dif- 
ference between  her  condition  in  life  and  mine, 
she  had  desired  to  find  out  whether  a  nearer 
approach  to  the  fashions  of  my  country  in  dress 
would,  in  my  eyes,  bring  about  a  nearer  approach 
of  our  destinies.  She  had  prepared  the  experi- 
ment without  my  knowledge  and  with  the  assist- 
ance of  her  friends,  hoping  to  appear  suddenly 
before  me  handsomer  and  nearer  to  me  than 
she  thought  herself  to  be  in  her  simple  island 
dress.  But  she  had  deceived  herself.  She 
began  to  perceive  it  in  my  silence.  Her  face 
took  an  expression  of  desperate  impatience  and 
she  nearly  burst  into  tears  at  my  discovery  of 
her  hidden  purpose,  her  deception,  her  crime. 

She  was  still  very  beautiful,  and  her  intention 
should  have  enhanced  her  beauty  a  thousand 
times  in  my  eyes.  But  that  beauty  was  almost 
like  a  torture.  She  resembled  one  of  Correggio's 
young  virgins  nailed  to  the  martyr's  stake,  twist- 
ins:  about  in  the  cords  that  bound  them  to  avoid 


212  GKA7.1RLLA: 

the  looks  that  defiled  their  chastity.  Alas!  it 
was  a  martyrdom  for  poor  Gra/.iella  too;  but 
not  as  one  might  have  thought  at  seeing  her,  a 
martyrdom  of  vanity  —  it  was  the  martyrdom  of 
her  love. 

The  clothes  of  the  young  French  school  girl, 
cut  undoubtedly  for  the  lank  waist  and  thin 
arms  and  shoulders  of  a  girl  of  thirteen  or  four- 
teen years  who  had  been  shut  up  in  the  house 
all  her  life,  were  much  too  small  for  the  well 
developed  form  and  rounded  shoulders,  strongly 
riveted  upon  the  body,  of  this  charming  daugh- 
ter of  the  sun  and  sea.  The  dress  had  burst 
out  in  several  places,  at  the  shoulders,  at  the 
bosom,  around  the  waist,  like  the  bark  of  a 
sycamore  that  is  torn  from  the  branches  of  the 
tree  by  the  force  of  its  spring  sap.  The  sewing 
girls  had  tried  to  pin  the  dress  and  the  cape 
here  and  there,  but  nature  had  torn  the  stuff  at 
every  movement.  In  several  spots  I  could  see 
the  girl's  bare  neck  through  the  holes  in  the 
silk,  and  her  bare  arms  under  the  patches.  The 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          213 

coarse  stuff  of  her  undergarment  bulged  out 
through  the  cape  and  dress,  and  its  rude  texture 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  elegance  of  the 
silk.  The  arms,  ill  at  ease  in  the  short,  tight 
sleeves,  came  out  like  the  butterfly  from  its 
chrysalis  as  it  swells  and  bursts.  Her  feet, 
usually  naked,  and  accustomed  to  large  Grecian 
shoes,  stretched  the  satin  slippers  which  seemed 
to  imprison  them  with  their  tightly  drawn 
strings,  giving  them  the  appearance  of  sandals 
on  her  limbs.  Her  hair,  badly  dressed  and 
badly  kept  in  its  place  with  its  confusion  of  lace 
and  false  flowers,  raised  of  itself  this  whole 
structure  of  coiffure,  and,  while  it  failed  to  dis- 
figure her  lovely  face,  it  gave  her  an  expression 
of  boldness  in  the  ornaments  and  of  modest 
reserve  in  her  features  that  formed  the  strangest 
but  most  delightful  contrast. 

Her  attitude  was  as  embarrassed  as  her  fea- 
tures ;  she  did  not  dare  to  move  from  fear  of 
dropping  the  flowers  from  her  head,  or  of  disar- 
ranging her  dress.  She  could  not  walk,  for  her 


214  GRAZIELLA: 

slippers  were  so  tight  as  to  make  her  steps 
charmingly  awkward.  One  would  have  said 
that  she  was  the  artless  Eve  of  this  sea  of  sun, 
caught  in  the  trap  of  her  first  coquetry. 

XXXI. 

The  whole  room  was  hushed  for  a  moment. 
Then,  more  pained  than  rejoiced  at  this  profa- 
nation of  nature,  I  went  toward  Graziella  with 
an  expression  half  mocking  and  half  reproach- 
ful, making  believe  that  I  could  scarcely  recog- 
nize her  in  this  elaborate  costume. 

"What!"  I  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  you,  Graziella? 
and  who  in  the  world  would  ever  have  known 
the  lovely  Procidana  in  this  Parisian  doll  ? 
Come  now,"  I  went  on,  a  little  more  sharply, 
"are  you  not  ashamed  to  have  disfigured  in  this 
way  that  which  God  has  made  so  beautiful  in  a 
natural  dress?  You  will  try  in  vain,  Graziella- 
You  will  never  be  anything  but  the  daughter  of 
the  waves,  adorned  by  rays  from  your  own  splen- 
did heaven.  You  must  resign  yourself  to  it,  and 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          215 

you  should  thank  God  for  it.  This  plumage  of 
the  caged  bird  will  never  be  adapted  to  the  sea- 
s  wallow." 

These  words  pierced  her  to  the  heart.  She 
did  not  understand  that  I  felt  a  passionate  pref- 
erence, almost  an  adoration,  for  this  sea-swallow. 
She  thought  that  all  her  efforts  to  appear  more 
beautiful  for  my  sake  and  deceive  my  eyes  in 
regard  to  her  humble  station  had  been  thrown 
away.  Suddenly  she  burst  out  into  tears,  and, 
sitting  down  on  the  bed,  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  begged  in  a  pouting  tone  that  her 
young  friends  would  come  and  take  off  the  hate- 
ful ornaments. 

"  I  knew,"  said  she,  sighing  and  sobbing,  "  that 
I  was  nothing  but  a  poor  Procidana,  but  I  be- 
lieved that,  if  I  changed  my  dress,  you  would  not 
be  ashamed  of  me  some  day  if  I  should  follow 
you  into  your  native  country.  I  see  now  that  I 
must  always  remain  as  I  am,  and  die  as  I  was 
born.  But  you  should  not  have  reproached  me 
with  it." 


216  CRAZIELLA: 


With  these  words,  she  tore  off  in  contempt  the 
flowers,  the  lace  cap  and  the  cape,  and  threw 
them  in  anger  upon  the  floor,  where  she  trampled 
them  under  her  feet,  muttering  some  such  words 
of  reproach  as  her  grandmother  had  spoken  to 
the  planks  of  the  wrecked  boat.  Then  jumping 
toward  me,  she  blew  out  the  light  of  the  lamp  I 
was  holding  so  that  I  might  not  see  her  any  longer 
in  the  dress  which  had  displeased  me. 

I  felt  that  I  had  been  wrong  in  speaking  so 
sharply  to  her,  and  that  the  mockery  was  serious. 
I  begged  for  pardon.  I  told  her  that  I  had 
scolded  her  only  because  I  found  her  a  thousand 
times  more  charming  in  the  costume  of  Procida 
than  that  of  France.  It  was  true,  but  the  blow 
had  been  struck.  She  would  not  hear  me ;  she 
would  do  nothing  but  sob. 

I  went  out;  her  friends  took  off  the  dress  and 
I  saw  no  more  of  her  till  the  next  morning.  She 
had  resumed  her  island  costume,  but  her  eyes 
were  red  with  tears  that  my  mocking  had  cost 
her  through  the  entire  night. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          217 

XXXII. 

About  the  same  time  Graziella  began  to  dis- 
trust the  letters  which  I  received  from  France, 
suspecting,  and  rightly,  that  they  called  me  home. 
She  would  not  destroy  them,  for  she  was  too 
honest,  and  indeed  incapable  of  such  a  deception, 
if  her  life  depended  on  it,  but  she  sometimes 
kept  them  from  me  for  nine  days  at  a  time,  fasten- 
ing them  with  her  little  gilded  hairpins  behind  the 
image  of  the  Madonna  that  hung  on  the  wall  by 
the  side  of  her  bed.  She  thought  that  the  Holy 
Virgin,  touched  by  the  offerings  of  our  love, 
would  in  some  miraculous  way  change  the  con- 
tents of  the  letters  and  translate  the  orders  to 
return  into  permission  to  remain  with  her.  Not 
one  of  these  devoted  little  deceptions  escaped 
my  notice  and  all  of  them  rendered  her  dearer 
to  me  than  ever.  But  the  hour  was  approaching. 

XXXIII. 

One  evening  in  the  latter  part  of  May  there 
was  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door.  All  of  the 


2i8  GRAZIELLA: 


family  were  asleep  and  I  went  to  open  it.  It 
was  my  friend  V . 

"I  have  come  for  you,"  he  said.  "Here  is  a 
letter  from  your  mother.  You  will  not  resist  it. 
I  have  ordered  the  horses  for  midnight.  It  is  now 
eleven  o'clock.  Let  us  go  now  or  you  will  never 
leave  this  place.  You  are  killing  your  mother. 
You  know  how  your  family  holds  her  responsible 
for  all  your  faults.  She  has  sacrificed  herself  so 
often  for  you;  sacrifice  yourself  a  moment  for 
her.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  come  back  with 
you  to  this  place  and  spend  the  winter,  another 
long  year.  But  you  must  make  an  appearance 
in  your  family  and  a  sign  of  obedience  to  your 
mother's  commands." 

I  felt  that  I  was  lost. 

"Wait  for  me  here,"  I  said  to  him. 

I  went  back  into  my  room  and  hastily  threw 
my  clothes  into  the  valise.  I  wrote  to  Graziella 
all  that  the  affection  of  a  heart  of  eighteen  years 
could  express  ;  all  th.it  my  reason  could  dictate 
to  a  son  devoted  to  his  mother.  I  swore  to  her, 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.         219 

as  indeed  I  swore  to  myself,  that  before  four 
months  passed  I  would  be  by  her  side,  never 
again  to  leave  her.  I  confided  the  uncertainty 
of  our  future  destiny  to  Providence  and  to  love. 
I  left  my  purse  which  might  assist  the  family 
during  my  absence.  The  letter  closed,  I  ap- 
proached her  room  with  hushed  steps.  I  got 
down  on  my  knees  at  the  threshold  of  her  door, 
I  kissed  the  stone  and  wood.  I  slipped  the 
letter  into  her  room  under  the  door,  I  stifled  a 
sob  that  nearly  choked  me. 

My  friend  passed  his  arm  through  mine,  lifted 
me  and  dragged  me  away.  At  this  moment,  Graz- 
iella,  alarmed  no  doubt  by  the  unaccustomed 
noise,  opened  the  door.  The  moon  lighted  up 
the  terrace.  The  poor  girl  recognized  my  friend. 
She  saw  my  valise  which  a  servant  was  carrying 
away.  She  reached  out  her  arms,  cried  out  in 
terror,  and  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

We  rushed  to  her.  We  carried  her,  still  un- 
conscious, to  her  bed.  The  whole  family  ran 
into  the  room.  Water  was  thrown  upon  her  face 


•J20  GRAZIF.LLA  : 

and  she  was  called  by  all  the  names  that  had 
been  dearest  to  her.  She  only  came  to  herself 
at  my  voice. 

"You  see,"  said  my  friend  to  me,  "  she  lives. 
The  blow  has  been  given.  A  longer  parting 
would  only  bring  on  a  more  terrible  rebound." 

He  took  the  young  girl's  two  cold  arms  from 
around  my  neck  and  dragged  me  out  of  the  house. 
An  hour  later  we  were  rolling  in  silence  and  the 
night  along  the  road  to  Rome. 

XXXIV. 

I  had  left  Graziella  several  addresses  in  the 
letter  I  had  written  her.  I  received  her'first  letter 
at  Milan.  It  told  me  that  she  was  well  bodily, 
but  sick  at  heart ;  but  that  she  believed  in  my 
promise  and  confidently  awaited  my  return  in 
November. 

When  I  arrived  at  Lyons  I  found  a  second 
letter,  that  was  written  still  more  resignedly  and 
trustfully.  There  were  also  enclosed  some 
leaves  of  the  carnation  pink  that  grew  in  an 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE. 


earthen  flower- pot  on  the  terrace  walk  near  my 
room,  and  from  which  she  took  a  flower  every 
Sunday  to  put  in  her  hair.  Did  she  send  me 
these  leaves  that  I  might  have  something  which 

o  o 

she  had  touched  ?  Or  was  it  a  gentle  reproach 
disguised  under  this  sign,  and  sent  to  remind  me 
that  she  had  sacrificed  her  hair  for  me? 

She  told  me  that  she  had  had  the  fever;  that 
her  heart  gave  her  pain,  but  that  she  was  getting 
better  from  day  to  day ;  that  she  had  been  sent, 
for  a  change  of  air,  and  that  she  might  recover 
perfectly,  to  a  cousin  of  hers,  Cecco's  sister, 
whose  house  was  at  Vomero,  a  high  and  health- 
ful hill  looking  over  Naples. 

Then  it  was  more  than  three  months  that  I 
did  not  receive  another  letter.  I  thought  of 
(Iraziella  every  day.  I  was  to  return  to  Italy  in 
the  beginning  of  the  Winter.  Her  sad  and  lovely 
likeness  haunted  me  like  a  regret  and  sometimes 
like  a  tender  reproach.  I  was  at  that  ungrateful 
age  when  the  spirit  of  levity  and  fashion  makes 
a  young  man  ashamed  of  the  best  sentiments  of 


222  CRAZIELLA  : 

his  soul,  a  cruel  age  when  the  grandest  gifts  of 
God  —  pure  love,  innocent  affections  —  fall  in 
the  dust  and  are  carried  away  in  their  bloom  by 
the  wind  of  the  world.  The  false  and  ironic 
pride  of  my  friends  often  struggled  hard  against 
the  latent  but  living  love  in  the  depths  of  my 
heart.  I  could  not  have  avowed,  without  blush- 
ing and  exposing  myself  to  ridicule,  the  name 
and  condition  of  the  object  of  my  regret  and 
sadness.  Graziella  was  not  forgotten  but  she 
was  lost  from  sight  in  that  life  of  mine.  This 
love  which  fascinated  my  heart  humiliated  my 
vanity.  Her  memory,  which  I  cherished  in  my 
solitude,  followed  me  into  society  like  a  remorse. 
How  I  blush  now  that  I  blushed  then!  A  single 
ray  of  joy  or  a  single  drop  of  water  from  her 
chaste  eyes  was  worth  more  than  all  the  glances, 
smiles  and  allurements  to  which  1  was  ready  to 
sacrifice  her  memory.  Ah!  The  young  man  is 
incapable  of  love.  lie  knows  the  value  of  noth- 
ing, lie  can  not  appreciate  true  happiness  until 
after  he  has  lost  it.  There  is  more  wild  sap, 


A    S7VRY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          223 

more  fluttering  shade  in  the  young  plants  of  the 
forest;  there  is  more  fire  in  the  old  heart  of  the 
oak. 

True  love  is  the  ripe  fruit  of  the  lifetime.  At 
eighteen  years  one  does  not  know  it;  one  only 
imagines  it.  As  in  the  vegetable  nature,  when 
the  fruit  comes,  the  leaves  fall,  so  perhaps  it 
is  in  human  nature.  I  have  often  thought  it 
since  I  have  been  able  to  count  the  gray  hairs  in 
my  head.  Oh,  how  I  have  blamed  myself  for 
not  appreciating  the  worth  of  that  lovely  flower! 
I  was  nothing  but  vanity,  and  vanity  is  more  silly 
and  more  cruel  than  vice,  for  it  makes  happiness 
blush. 

XXXV. 

On  one  of  the  first  nights  of  X"ovember,  as  I 
returned  home  from  a  ball,  a  letter  was  given 
me,  along  with  a  package,  brought  to  the  house 
by  a  traveler  from  Naples,  while  changing  horses 
in  Macon.  The  traveler,  who  was  a  stranger  to 
me,  said  in  his  letter  that  he  had  been  charged 
with  this  little  commission  by  one  of  his  friends, 


224  GRAZIELLA 


the  director  of  a  coral  factory  in  Naples,  and  he 
took  the  first  opportunity  of  delivering  it;  but 
that,  the  news  which  lie  brought  being  sad  and 
dismal,  he  would  not  ask  to  see  me;  he  wished, 
however,  that  I  would  acknowledge  its  receipt 
at  Paris. 

Trembling,  I  opened  the  bundle.  It  enclosed 
under  the  first  wrapper  Graziella's  last  letter, 
which  contained  but  these  words  : 

"  The  doctor  tells  me  that  I  shall  die  before 
three  days.  I  wish  to  say  farewell  to  you  before 
I  lose  all  my  strength.  Oh,  if  you  were  here, 
I  should  live!  But  it  is  Clod's  will,  and  I  will 
talk  with  you  soon  and  ever  after  from  the 
heaven  above.  Love  my  soul,  for  it  will  be 
with  you  throughout  life.  I  leave  you  the  hair 
cut  for  you  one  night.  Consecrate  it  to  God 
in  a  chapel  of  your  own  country,  that  some- 
thing of  me  may  be  near  you." 
XXXVI. 

I  remained  crushed,  the  letter  in  my  hand, 
until  morniim.  It  was  onlv  then  that  I  had  the 


A    STORY  OF  1 'TALI 'A N  LOVE.          225 

strength  to  open  the  second  paper.  All  her 
beautiful  hair  was  there,  as  she  had  shown  it  to 
me  on  the  memorable  night  in  the  island  cabin. 
It  was  still  entangled  with  some  of  the  leaves 
which  had  clung  to  it  that  night.  I  did  what  she 
had  ordered.  The  shadow  of  her  death  was  from 
that  day  cast  over  my  face  and  my  youth. 

Twelve  years  later  I  returned  to  Naples.  I 
looked  for  traces  of  her,  but  there  were  none  to 
be  found,  either  at  Margellina  or  at  Procida. 
The  little  house  on  the  cliff  of  the  island  had  fallen 
into  ruins.  There  remained  nothing  of  it  but  a 
heap  of  gray  stones,  which  covered  a  cellar  for  the 
goatherds  and  their  goats  during  the  rains.  Time 
quickly  blots  out  all  material  traces,  but  it  never 
blots  out  the  traces  of  a  first  love  in  the  heart  it 
has  visited. 

Poor  Graziella!  Many,  many  days  have  gone 
by  since  then.  I  have  loved  and  been  beloved. 
Other  rays  of  beauty  and  affection  have  lighted 
up  my  dark  way.  Other  souls  have  been  opened 
to  me  and  revealed  in  the  hearts  of  women  the 


226  CR  A /JELL  A  : 


most  mysterious  treasures  of  beauty,  holiness 
and  purity  which  God  ever  placed  upon  this  earth 
to  make  us  feel,  comprehend,  and  desire  the 
blessings  of  heaven.  But  nothing  has  effaced 
thy  first  impression  upon  my  heart.  The  longer 
I  live  the  nearer  I  approach  thee  in  thought. 
Thy  memory  is  like  those  fires  of  thy  father's 
boat,  which  in  the  distance  are  separated  from 
their  smoke,  and  which  shine  the  more  brilliant 
as  they  recede.  I  know  not  where  sleep  thy 
mortal  remains,  nor  if  any  one  in  thy  own  country 
still  weeps  over  thy  grave;  but  thy  real  sepul- 
chre is  in  my  heart.  It  is  there  that  thou  art 
gathered  and  cherished  entire.  Thy  name  is 
never  heard  in  vain.  I  love  the  language  in 

O  O 

which  it  is  pronounced.  At  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  there  is  a  tear  that  is  ever  dropping,  drop- 
ping, and  secretly  falls  on  thy  memory  to  keep  it 
fresh  ;  to  embalm  it  within  me. 

XXXVII. 

One   day,  in   the  year  1830,  having  gone  into 
a   church    in    Paris,  I    saw    them    bring   a  coffin, 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE,          227 

covered  with  a  white  cloth  and  containing 
the  remains  of  a  young  girl.  This  coffin  re- 
minded me  of  Graziella.  I  glided  into  the  shade 
of  one  of  the  columns.  I  dreamed  of  Procida 
and  I  wept  a  long  time. 

My  tears  dried  up,  but  the  clouds  that  came 
across  my  thoughts  during  this  sad  funeral  ser- 
vice, will  never  vanish.  I  returned  to  my  room 
in  silence.  I  unfolded  the  reminiscences  that 
are  retraced  in  this  long  note,  and  I  wrote  at  one 
sitting,  weeping  the  while,  the  verses  entitled, 
"  The  First  Regret."  It  is  the  echo  of  a  heart- 
beat, toned  down  by  the  distance  of  twenty  years, 
that  caused  the  first  spring  to  gush  forth;  but 
one  may  still  discover  the  trembling  of  a  fibre, 
wounded  then,  never  to  be  fully  cured. 

Here  are  the  verses — the  balm  of  a  wound,  the 
dew  of  a  heart,  the  perfume  of  a  sepulchral 
flower.  The  name  of  Graziella  alone  is  wanting. 
I  would  insert  it  in  a  verse  if  there  were  here  be- 
low a  crystal  pure  enough  to  hold  this  tear,  this 
souvenir,  this  name. 


228  GRAZTELLA: 


THE    FIRST    REGRET. 

Near  the  sounding  shore  of  Sorrento's  sea, 
Where  the  blue  waves  roll  to  the  orange  tree, 
In  a  narrow  way  by  the  blossoming  hedge, 
Stands  a  little  stone  by  the  water's  edge, — 
A  tomb  it  scarce  can  be  ! 

Yet  a.  wall-flower  there  a  name  conceals, 

A  name  that  no  echoes  ever  resound, 
And  a  parting  branch  to  the  eye  reveals 

The  age  and  date  of  the  lost  and  found  ; 
And  the  stranger  will  say,  with  a  tear  in  his  eye, 
"She  was  only  sixteen — It  was  early  to  die." 

But  why  drag  my  soul  to  scenes  that  are  o'er? 

Let  the  waves  murmur,  the  weary  winds  sigh, 
Come  back,  sad  thoughts,  to  the  present  hour, 

I  would  not  weep,  but  dream  for  aye. 

"  She  was  only  sixteen,"  and  that  sweet  age 
Never  smiled  upon  lovelier  heritage  ; 
And  never  before  to  human  sight 
Reflected  the  water  an  eye  more  bright  ; 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          229 

Now  her  image  is  with  me,  fair  to  my  eye 

As  a  thought  on  the  mind  where  nothing  can  die. 

And  she  lives  as  when,  with  her  liquid  eyes, 

She  gazed  my  soul  into  paradise  ; 

And  when  the  light  breeze   through  her  dark  hair 

strayed, 

And  the  sail's  cool  shade  with  her  fair  cheek  played  ; 
When  she  listened  to  hear  the  fisherman's  song 
Which  the  balmy  sea  wind  wafted  along  ; 
And  pointing  to  the  waning  moon  forlorn — 
A  night-flower  surprised  by  the  coming  morn — 
And  to  th'  silvery  waves,  she  would  say  to  me : 
"  What  means  this  glitter  upon  the  sea? 
These  fields  of  azure  and  flames  on  high, 
These  sands  of  gold  where  the  waves  all  die, 
These  hill-tops  that  tremble  against  the  sky, 
These  heights  where  the  silent  forests  lie, 
These  crested  waves  and  the  lights  on  shore? 
They  have  ravished  my  senses  never  before. 
Never  before  have  I  dreamed  as  to-night : 
Is't  a  star  in  my  soul  that  is  shedding  this  light? 
Say,  son  of  the  morning,  are  these  nights,  so  grand, 
Like  those  without  me  in  thy  native  land  ?  " 
On  her  mother's  knee  she  reclined  her  head, 
For  her  mother  was  near  when  this  was  said. 


230  GRAZ1ELLA : 


But  why  drag  my  soul  to  scenes  that  are  o'er? 

Let  the  waves  murmur,  the  weary  winds  sigh  ! 
Come  back,  sad  thoughts,  to  the  present  hour, 
I  would  not  weep,  but  dream  for  aye. 

How  frank  was  her  mouth  and  her  eye  how  bright ! 

Heaven  steeped  her  soul  in  its  dreamy  light  ; 

The  Lake  of  Nemi,  unstirred  by  the  wind, 

Was  less  transparent  than  was  her  mind. 

When  the  thoughts  of  her  soul  to  her  lips  would  rise, 

Her  lids  never  closed  on  her  downcast  eyes, 

Nor  veiled  her  beauty  and  gentle  grace, 

Nor  the  glow  of  innocence  on  her  face  ; 

All  was  joy  to  her,  and  a  youthful  smile 

Sat  happily  over  her  mouth  the  while, 

Like  a  rainbow  in  a  brilliant  sky 

That  blooms  and  then  is  doomed  to  die. 

Over  her  face  no  shadow  lay, 

No  cloud  of  darkness  dimmed  its  ray  ; 

Her  step,  so  wayward  and  careless  alway, 

Like  a  wave  that  cradles  the  sleeping  day, 

Was  happy  and  free  ;  and  the  silvery  roll 

Of  her  voice  was  the  echo  of  her  soul, 

And  this  song  of  the  soul,  where  all  was  song, 

Gladdened  the  air  as  it  floated  alonsj. 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE. 

But  why  drag  my  soul  to  scenes  that  are  o'er? 

Let  the  waves  murmur,  the  weary  winds  sigh  ! 
Come  back,  sad  thoughts,  to  the  present  hour, 
I  would  not  weep,  but  dream  for  aye. 

As  the  eye  first  catches  the  morning  beams, 

My  image  was  first  in  her  heart  of  dreams. 

From  that  day  on,  about  and  above, 

The  world  was  a  universe  of  love. 

She  mingled  her  beautiful  being  with  mine, 

And  I  to  her  soul  was  the  sacred  shrine 

Of  th'  enchanted  world  to  which  she  had  given 

All  the  joy  of  earth  and  the  hope  of  Heaven. 

She  gave  no  thought  to  time  or  space, 

The  present  was  her  resting  place  ; 

With  me  her  life  was  without  a  past, 

With  me  no  future  its  shadow  cast ; 

To  nature  she  gave  herself  entire, 

That  did  smile  on  us  and  the  prayer  inspire 

At  the  altar, — to  which  bright  flowers  she  brought;- 

Not  in  tears  but  gladly  sought, 

She  led  me  to  this  holy  altar, 

And  like  a  child,  did  1  tremble  and  falter, 

While  she  whispered  low  :  "Come  pray  with  me, 

I  can  not  reach  Heaven  itself  without  thee." 


232  GRAZIELLA: 


But  why  drag  my  soul  to  scenes  that  arc  o'er? 

Let  the  waves  murmur,  the  weary  winds  sigh  ! 
Come  back,  sad  thoughts,  to  the  present  hour, 
I  would  not  weep,  but  dream  for  aye. 

From  a  living  source  comes  this  water  transparent, 
So  like  a  rounded  lake  having  no  current  ; 
Blue  and  serene,  and  shaded  all  day 
From  the  wind's  blighting  breath  and  the  sun's  scorch- 
ing ray  ; 

A  white  swan  swimming  on  the  placid  bay, 
Hiding  its  neck  where  the  ripples  play, 
Adorns  the  mirror  without  dimming  its  light, 
Rocking  itself  with  the  stars  of  the  night. 
But  beating  the  wave  with  wings  so  white, 
To  other  waters  it  takes  its  flight ; 
Then  the  Heavens  are  lost  in  the  ruffled  wave, 
Dimmed  by  the  motion  its  plumage  gave, 
As  if  the  vulture,  foe  of  the  bird, 
With  traces  of  death  the  surface  had  blurred  ; 
And  the  brilliant  blue  of  the  enchanted  lake 
Is  lost  in  the  hue  the  sanded  waters  take. 

So  trembled  her  soul  when  I  went  away: 
Its  light  died  out  and  the   flickering  ray 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOl'E 

Fled  back  to  Heaven  no  more  to  shine. 
She  awaited  not  return  of  mine, 
She  languished  not  in  the  doubt  of  hope, 
Sought  not  with  her  cruel  fate  to  cope  : 
She  drained  at  a  draught  her  cup  of  woe, 
She  drowned  her  heart  in  the  first  tear's  flow  J 
And,  like  the  bird,  less  pure  and  light, 
That  folds  its  head  under  its  wing  at  night, 
She  wrapped  herself  in  mute  despair 
And  fell  asleep  ere  the  night  was  there. 

But  why  drag  my  soul  to  scenes  that  are  o'er? 

Let  the  waves  murmur,  the  weary  winds  sigh 
Come  back,  sad  thoughts,  to  the  present  hour, 
I  would  not  weep,  but  dream  for  aye- 

These  fifteen  years  has  she  been  asleep, 

And  over  her  grave  no  mourners  weep, 

And  oblivion,  second  shroud  of  the  dead, 

Has  covered  the  way  to  her  lowly  bed. 

No  one  vi>its  this  slab  of  gray, 

Xone  ever  dream  there,  none  ever  pray  ; 

But  following  the  flood  of  clays  gone  by 

I  summon  the  past  with  a  heavy  sigh, 

And  fond  memories  swelling  my  heart  of  cares, 

I  weep  in  a  heaven  of  fallen  stars  ; 


234  GRAZIELLA  : 

But  she  was  the  fir>t  and  fairest  of  all, 
And  lier  light  illumines  my  bosom's  pall. 


But  why  drag  my  soul  to  scenes  that  are  o'er? 

Let  the  waves  murmur,  the  weary  winds  sigh  ! 
Come  back,  sad  thoughts,  to  the  present  hour, 
I  would  not  weep,  but  dream  for  aye. 

A  thorny  bush,  all  blasted  and  seared, 

Is  the  only  monument  nature  has  reared  ; 

Scorched  by  the  sun  and  riven  by  the  wind, 

Like  a  funeral  regret   fixed  in  the  mind, — 

It  lives  in  a  rock  by  no  ^hade  brightened, 

Its  withered  leaves  by  the  road-dust  whitened; 

It  grows  near  the  ground,  and  the  broken  stocks 

Are  nibbled  close  by  the  goatherd's  flocks. 

A  bird  of  sweet  and  .sorrowful  tones 

Sits  on  a  bending  branch  and   mo.ins. 

In  springtime  a  flower  may  bloom  a  day, 

But  like  a  snowflake  it  is  swept  away — 

Blasted  before  its  fragrance  is  spread, 

Like  life  ere  the  heart  by  love  is  led  ; 

Oh,  tell  me,  flower,  in  this,  thy  day  of  doom, 

Is  there  no  world  where  all  again  will  bloom? 


A    STORY  OF  ITALIAN  LOVE.          235 

Now  go,  weary  soul,  to  scenes  that  are  past, 

And  come  back,  sad  memories,  help  me  to  sigh ! 
And  thoughts,  ye  may  follow  my  soul  at  last, 
I  would  not  dream,  but  weep  for  aye. 

In  these  written  tears  alone  have  I  expiated 
the  hardness  and  ingratitude  of  my  heart  of 
eighteen  years.  I  can  never  read  over  these 
verses  without  adoring  that  youthful  image 
which  the  transparent  and  plaintive  waves  of 
the  Gulf  of  Naples  will  ever  bring  to  me, — nor 
without  hating  myself.  But  souls  above  forgive. 
Hers  has  forgiven  me.  Forgive  me,  too,  reader, 
for  I  have  wept. 

THE    END. 


STANDARD    OPERAS.      Their 
•*•       Plots,  their  Music,  and  their  Composers.     By 
GEORGE  P.  UPTON,  author  of  "  Woman  in  Music," 
etc.,  etc. 

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bringing  them  together  in  one  perfectly  arranged  volume.  .  .  . 
His  work  is  one  simply  invaluable  to  the  general  reading  pub- 
lic. Technicalities  are  avoided,  the  aim  being  to  give  to  musi- 
cally uneducated  lovers  of  the  opera  a  clear  understanding  of  the 
works  they  hear.  It  is  description,  not  criticism,  and  calculated 
to  greatly  increase  the  intelligent  enjoyment  of  music." — Boston 
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Standard  Operas,'  by  Mr.  George  P.  Upton,  whose  object  is  to 
present  to  his  readers  a  comprehensive  sketch  of  each  of  the 
operas  contained  in  the  modern  repertory.  .  .  .  There  are 
thousands  of  music-loving  people  who  will  be  glad  to  have  the 
kind  of  knowledge  which  Mr.  Upton  has  collected  for  their 
benefit,  and  has  cast  in  a  clear  and  compact  form."  —  /?.  H, 
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"  The  summaries  of  the  plots  are  so  clear,  logical,  and  well 
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HTHK    STANDARD     ORATORIOS. 

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HTHE  STANDARD  CANTATAS.  Their 

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The  "  Standard  Cantatas  "  forms  the  third  volume  in  the  unt. 
form  series  which  already  includes  the  now  well  known  "  Stan- 
dard Operas"  and  the  "Standard  Oratorios."  This  latest  work 
deals  with  a  class  of  musical  compositions,  midway  between  the 
opera  and  the  oratorio,  which  is  growing  rapidly  in  favor  both 
with  composers  and  audiences. 

As  in  the  two  former  works,  the  subject  is  treated,  so  far  as 
possible,  in  an  untechnical  manner,  so  that  it  may  satisfy  the 
needs  of  musically  uneducated  music  lovers,  and  add  to  their  en- 
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The  book  includes  a  comprehensive  essay  on  the  origin  of  the 
cantata,  and  its  development  from  rude  beginnings  ;  biographical 
sketches  of  the  composers  ;  carefully  prepared  descriptions  of 
the  plots  and  the  music  ;  and  an  appendix  containing  the  names 
and  dates  of  composition  of  all  the  best  known  cantatas  from  the 
earliest  times. 

This  series  of  works  on  popular  music  has  steadily  grown  in 
favor  since  the  appearance  of  the  first  volume  on  the  Operas. 
When  the  series  is  completed,  as  it  will  be  next  year  bv  a  volume 
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E     STANDARD      SYMPHONIES. 

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The  usefulness  of  this  handbook  rani;ot  he  doubted.  Its 
pases  are  packed  t'ull  of  these  fascinating  renderings.  The 
accounts  of  each  composer  are  succinct  and  yet  sufficient.  '1  he 
author  lias  done  a  genuine  service  to  the  \\urld  ot  music  lovers. 
The  comprehension  of  orchestral  \voik  of  the  highest  character 
is  aided  efficiently  by  this  volume.  The  mechanical  execution 
of  the  volume  is  in  harmony  with  its  subject.  No  worthier 
volume  can  be  found  to  put  into  the  hands,  of  an  amateur  ur  a 
friend  of  music.  —  Public  Opinion,  Washington. 

None  who  have  seen  the  previous  hooks  <f  Mr.  T'pton  will 
need  assurance  that  this  is  as  indispensable  as  the  others  to  one 
who  would  listen  intelligently  to  that  belter  class  of  music  which 
musicians  congratulate  themselves  Americans  are  learning  to 
appreciatively  enjoy.  — Home  Journal,  \civ  York. 

There  has  never  been,  in  this  country  at  least,  so  thorough  an 
attempt  to  collate  the  facts  of  programme  music.  .  .  .  As  a 
definite  helper  in  some  cases  and  as  a  refresher  in  others  we 
believe  Mr.  Upton's  book  to  have  a  lasting  value.  .  .  .  The 
book,  in  brief,  shows  enthusiastic  and  honorable  educational 
purpose,  good  taste,  and  sound  scholarship. —  The  American, 
Philadelphia. 

Upton's  books  should  be  read  and  studied  by  all  who  desire  to 
acquaint  themselves  with  the  facts  and  accomplishments  in  these 
interesting  forms  of  musical  composition. —  The  I'oice,  AVry 
York. 

It  is  written  in  a  style  that  r.innot  fail  to  stimulate  the  reader, 
if  also  a  student  of  music,  to  strive  to  find  for  himseif  the  under- 
lying meanings  of  the  compositions  of  the  great  composers. 
It  contains,  besid.es.  a  vast  amount  of  information  about  the 
symphony,  its  evolution  and  structure,  with  sketches  of  the  com- 
posers, and  a  detailed  technical  description  of  a  tew  symphonic 
model-.  It  meets  a  recognized  want  of  all  concert  goers.— 
The  Chautauqiian. 

So!d  by  all  booksellers,  or  in.a'.cd  on  rcccift  of  f  rice,  by 
A.  C.  McCI.UKG    CM    CO.,  ruiu.isiiKRS, 

C"K.   WAHASII   Avi-:.   AMI  M -'.bisON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


3  1158  01054  7890 


2325 

G?9E 
1875 


A    001437793    1 


